A Mad Jester's Life
by Machinist's Guardian Archangel
Summary: In the Pathfinder world that suddenly lost its gods and went through a hundred years of civil war, a strange college grew to the north. The "graduates" all left wearing strange clown costumes, dangerous entertainers who wander the lands bringing merriment and death with them. These are the tales of one such Jester, known only as Jingles. Cover comes from Palavenmoons on Tumblr.
1. Jingles Bio

So after my campaign with Tiny Corvo the stab happy spider halfling came to an end, we started a new campaign with new characters and way ahead in time in an alternate timeline thing. Very Fallout-y, but in a good way. Short version is, we all got to build our own little towns and communities. And I... kinda made a cult based off the Jesters from Darkest Dungeon.

The College of the Jester is a bard college, one that specializes in making both entertainers and survivors. I'll likely post more detailed stuff about them later, but they essentially live to make as many people happy as they can before Cthulhu and his companions come back and smite us all. And let's just say Jingles is not exactly a stable graduate of the College. But hey, Cthulhu invading your nightmares every night will drive anyone a little bonkers.

So here's my new character, Jingles, introduced in a sheet very similar to the one I just filled out for Tiny Corvo!

* * *

Name: Jingles (Ralrai)  
Age: 32  
Sex: Male  
Species: Hellfire Tiefling  
Height: 5' 11"  
Weight: 145 lbs  
Appearance Features: crimson skin, vibrant blue eye, small horns over each eye, midnight black hair, fangs more than teeth. Very lanky, minimal muscle to him. Several battle scars on his body, few tattoos to commemorate his big adventures, over half of the left side of his face burned horribly from acid, left eye glazed over and defunct.

Behavior and Personality: hyper, joking, manic, and mildly sociopathic. Jingles is almost always laughing quietly to himself or out loud at the ridiculous world. Ready with a joke or amusing observation at all times, never takes things seriously. Typically playing some kind of music on his lute or bagpipes during down time, for entertainment or further mastery. Knows how to be damned charming in his own weird way, convincing people to like him either with kind jokes so they like him, or scaring them into agreeing. Values a person's happiness and smile over their lives, reflects this in how he talks about/to people. Has zero concern for someone's life or well-being, especially if he can make them happy before they die.

Skills: lute/bagpipes/viol/drums player, gifted performer of music, decent comedian for roasting people, scaring people, decent with magic, combat with magically upgraded blades, distractions, lightening the mood, cheering people up.  
Weaknesses: can't take things seriously, no strength, can't read people, half-blind, difficulty calming down his mania, minimal ability to tolerate pain, easily distracted, terrible survivalist, animal instinctively run away from him.  
Likes: fun, performances, music, adventure, death-defying feats, using magic to get his way, making others smile and be happy, scaring people who think they're above that.  
Dislikes: seriousness, safety or complacency, hypocrites, cults, people who worship other gods, unhappy people, not getting paid.

History:

Ralrai was born an outcast into his family of wanderers: a tiefling from half-elf parents and the only out of his four siblings to show the infernal legacy on his mother's side. This was only furthered when it became apparent that he could not wield a bow as the rest of them could, making him almost useless in hunts. Even when he could charm or steal his way into supplies, he was never going to be accepted by his family. This came to a head one evening in his teens, and the bottle of acid he offered to his father was instead poured back onto his face. Disfigured, terrified, and now blind in his left eye, Ralrai left his miserable excuse of a family to try and make a living in small towns that dotted the country side. It was by no means a pleasant experience, but he made due off the pity of others, as well as selling himself as a walking joke with traveling amusement groups. And when times were particularly tough, he simply took what others refused to give.

Soon after he turned 19, he found himself on a caravan guarded by a Jester in training and his teacher. He fell in love with the concept: a hardened survivor, always happy and joking, never caring about how terrible his life was. Convincing these costumed men to take him back to their castle, Ralrai was never lied to about what it would take to make him like the others. He didn't mind losing his memory or what remained of his sanity: what good had it done him? And so he learned of the Elder Gods, of the Jesters, of the fate of the doomed world. This knowledge helped him forgot his past life. And for the first time in years, he smiled and laughed.

At 21, fully accepting the moniker of Jingles from the Kenku caravan he protected while training, he set off to bring merriment and a touch of needed destruction wherever he could. A noteworthy Jester, though never legendary like Pennywise and Dismas, he helped spread a certain reputation for Jesters being terrifying and suicidal in combat, but wonderful to stick with around campfires. He eventually came into possession of a magical lute, one of the rumored Instruments of the Bard, after its previous owner met her end at the hands of a giant. Killing the creature single-handedly, no one in his company argued when he claimed the beautiful instrument. He's never let Jessie, as he lovingly refers to her, out of his sight since. Those who tried to change that never lasted long.

He will never forget the tenants of his college: Enjoy his life, bring merriment to many, even if some must die for this to happen. Ensure you are paid, fed, and comfortable. But always seek the dangerous and ill-advised. The end is coming anyway: might as well take a few risks to enjoy things in the mean time.

Clothing/Personal Style: lives in his patchwork Jester costume almost constantly, has one spare to change into if the other needs to be washed, a very loose and soft costume to sleep in. One back-up for the mask that's not magical, only to be worn if the normal one is being tended to. Never allows anyone to see the man under the costume.

Goal: To cheer up as many as possible before Cthulhu rises again.  
Profession: Jester and Longwalker; professional entertainer, bodyguard, monster hunter (sometimes), and courier.  
Personal quote: "No one ever taught you what you should really be afraid of, did they?"  
Theme song: How Far We've Come, Matchbox Twenty

Favorite food: roasted bird  
Favorite drink: whiskey  
Favorite location: College of the Jester  
Favorite weather: cold, enoug to justify him playing with fire.  
Favorite color: red

Least liked food: standard, normal bread.  
Least liked drink: cheap ale.  
Least liked location: very religious town he passed through years ago, no drinking, everyone too uptight, small town with no fun.  
Least liked weather: extreme heat.

Favorite person: no one in particular. Getting too hung up on one person ruins the sense of adventure.  
Least liked person: no one in particular. Most he doesn't like he ends up killing.  
Friends: Arwen closest to best since college days, Atlas in a joking/competitive kind of way, few other people here and there.  
Relations: still has four sisters, Delanys, Cophira, Elenphye, and Venyaries, and father, Osnan, but no memory of them; several short term girlfriends in the Jesters and in the various communities Jingles performed in; good friendly, working relationship with almost all Jesters.  
Enemies: anyone who happens to get in his way, no real lifelong enemies.  
Significant other: Arwen, kind of. Long time separated, but both want to meet again  
Orientation: straight


	2. When Jingles Met Jessie

**When Jingles Met Jessie**

"I don't know where you're going, but do you have room for one more troubled soul?" the costumed clown sings merrily, adding a strange joy to his lyrics. He makes it work, though. All of the passengers in the six uncovered carts, loaded down with laborers, merchants, and wares to peddle find themselves distracted from their dangerous predicament. In fact most are happily humming along with the chorus. It's what the Jinarr Trading Company hired the bard for, after all, and he is good at his job. "This is the road to ruin, and we're starting at the end."

One man is noticeably ignoring the performance, instead watching the forest for signs of hostile life. Anwal has hardly moved from his seat beside the lead driver since they left town at dawn. The pale aasimar takes his job as seriously as the entertainer does: bandits on these roads are the least of their problems. Most of them aren't stupid enough to be this far from a pocket of civilization. It's the creatures that they should be worried about in these woods.

But the other riders are doing their best to forget that truth. They all grew up on tales of the monsters prowling the no man's lands between the tiny towns dotting their maps. Stories of the attic whispers still haunting the ruins of fallen cities, the impossibly fast gnolls waiting for the unprotected meals to walk by, the owlbears carrying entire carts to their nests. They all know it, and all try their best to ignore those fears as they ride through the sparse forest. The worry will drive them insane if they allow it. Thankfully, the patchwork clown in the center of their convoy is playing vibrantly enough to make them forget how close death is. "Let's be alone together, we can stay young forever. Scream it at the top of your lungs, lungs, lungs..."

The aasimar ranger signals them to stop. At the sign of her guide's raised fist, the lead driver whistles. All of the trailing handlers pull on their reigns, stopping the horses and carts. The group's attention has immediately shifted from the music to the claustrophobia inducing forest. Not that it stops the bard from playing more.

Anwal draws his bow, an arrow loosely notched as he drops down to the rough path. His green eyes scan the gently blowing trees at his sides before approaching the wreckage that caught his attention. What's left of a single caravan lays in pieces on the side of the road, the boulder through its center the obvious cause of its destruction. Dried blood and spilled wine decorates the wood. The broken bottles appear to be the only cargo left with the cart.

Half of a tiefling's body is sticking out from under one of the shattered wheels. Anwal leans towards the corpse and smells deeply, pressing two fingers to the flesh as a test. She's been dead for a few days, no more than a week. When the rock struck the cart, it trapped her underneath and hopefully killed her instantly. There are no other bodies here, only the blood of at least three other passengers. He has no way to know if that is the work of scavengers or the stone throwing highwayman.

"We need to disembark," he says, returning to the caravan. "Something large is out here. If we continue to ride through, it will ambush us wherever it wishes."

The dwarven leader and owner of the convoy glares down from her seat. "And what would you suggest then? We leave everything and walk, just hope to recoup my losses later?" Jinarr questions threateningly. She's known for her business sense, not her people skills.

The assimar is visibly irritated. "Do you question all of your employees when they are doing their jobs? Or just the ones you pay to keep you alive?"

"Just the holy boys like you who don't know their place. We are not abandoning the merchandise." She has to shout over the bard's newest song, which is likely called "DreamOn _,"_ considering how many times he's repeated the phrase.

"Fine... Give me half of your men, arm them with crossbows. I will lead them forward to scout. Follow ten minutes behind us, in case we do find what attacked the other cart."

Jinarr seems to question where to tell him to shove the plan, but bites her tongue. Instead, she turns back to her crew and whistles again. "Everybody, arm up. Half of you go with holy boy."

The first, and most enthusiastic, to join the ranger is the costumed bard. His pack is still on the cart, but his lute hangs tightly to his back. He raises his hand in a sloppy salute. "What're we killin', cap'n?" he asks through a chuckle.

Anwal tries to wave him away. "Get back on the caravan, clown. I don't need an entertainer slowing us down."

This time, the response is a full laugh in the ranger's face. He produces a sickle, razor sharp and glistening in the sunlight, as well as a quarterstaff with obvious signs of wear. "And I suppose you think these are only for performances then? That would be a show for the ages."

"The clown's paid to protect us, same as you," Jinarr explains smugly. "He just comes with free entertainment."

"Interesting..." the assimar says slowly, examining the costumed man before him. Actually, even that is only an assumption. The outfit is a patchwork of various crimsons and browns, sewn together haphazardly to cover every piece of the creature wearing it. Strategically placed bulk to the costume hints at leather armor beneath, and pockets are scattered across the body for storage. But even those and the belt for weapons can't make it look any less ridiculous.

What naturally draws the attention though is the mask. A traditional pantomime mask, featuring openings only for the eyes, is almost impossible to look away from. Not because of the pure white wood, and not because of the traditional jester cap partially covering it. It's the piercing cobalt eyes staring back at him. Anwal has never seen such vibrant color in a creature's eyes before. It vaguely reminds him of a glowworm's light, distracting prey as they fly into the waiting webs.

It makes him an interesting man to look at, and certainly to watch perform, but it does not hint at experience hunting monsters. Anwal is not thrilled by the idea of a clown assisting him in a fight.

"You've never met one of us, have you?" the bard asks, then chuckles seemingly to himself. "A shame, really. I'm told we Jesters are great company on long trips."

The ranger allows a raised eyebrow. "There are more of you?"

"Whole college of the weird little shits," Jinarr says. "They're reliable, come with free shows. I need to get a few of them under contract some day."

A slight clinking of bells signals the Jester's shaking head. "Not this day, not while there are other adventures waiting for me. But where are my manners? My name is Jingles, my good sir. I stand ready to provide a sharp blade and musical support." He gives a grand bow, complete with a dipped back foot and waved hand.

"I need a raise..." Anwal grumbles to himself. But he accepts he could use the help. A bard is useful for the magical inspiration. And he feels it is safer to keep the Jester where he can watch him. "Fine. Bring the essentials, what you need for magic. Do your best not to... jingle too much."

"Fear not!" he proclaims, then plucks the bells from the ends of his cap. They fall into a small pouch, which he promptly tosses onto the cart. "Now, I ask again, sir Anwal. What shall we be hunting in these woods?"

The ranger looks behind his strange companion and sees the others have finally gathered. His half of the crew is armed nervously with crossbows, crowding closer to hear what he says.

"Some kind of giant, if I had to guess," he says calmly. "We're far enough from mountains and volcanoes to rule out stone, cloud, and fire giants, but there are plenty of others. Whatever it is, it threw a boulder hard enough to destroy a carriage. Something that size we need to keep distance from, and hope the next rock misses. Those are easier to dodge than being stepped on."

"Whoever brings me its head gets a bonus," the dwarven master cheers. Clearly her peoples' natural hate for the creatures runs hot in her.

"Hopefully, we won't run into it. This is only a precaution," Anwal reminds.

Jingles chuckles again, loud enough to turn a few heads. "Where is the fun in that thinking?"

The ranger shakes his head. "My group will quietly scout ahead of the caravans. If anything tries to kill us, we kill it instead. Otherwise, we get back into the cart in a mile, once we're out of its territory. Any questions?"

There are none. Anwal then leads his small group of six laborers and one clown through the thicket flanking the rough road.

The group makes surprisingly little noise as they trek through the underbrush. Anwal stays low and quiet, letting his angelic eyes search for threats ahead. Jingles follows closely behind with a twirling sickle in hand. While his cloth outfit is bright in the daylight, he keeps up with surprising stealth. The crew moves almost silently by using the same steps as those in front of them. Even the halfling laborer is able to keep up with the large steps of his leaders without making much sound.

A half mile passes without activity, hardly even songbirds in the trees. When the ranger finally takes note of this, it's already too late for him. The group, crouched in thicket between main road and a clearing, has barely enough cover to hide in. When a human trips and stumbles into the woman in front of him, they both grunt. Combined with the broken twigs under their feet, it's enough to gain the attention of something much bigger.

Anwal, turning back to chastise his group, disappears when the blur of a boulder tears through the grass. Jingles feels rock almost graze his mask and rolls towards what threw it. He stands out of the brush, staring down a literal giant with only his sickle in hand. It's technically a cyclops, but close enough.

"Stupid merchants! My road!" the thing roars. Approaching with another rock to pelt the intruders, he cuts the distance down from a hundred feet to sixty in moments.

Jingles smiles beneath his mask, swapping his weapon for his lute. "Stand and fight, comrades! I've seen larger!" he rallies. His voice booms, far louder than it should naturally as he walks forward.

The cyclops screams, "Off my road, out of my field!" It hurls a boulder roughly the size of a dwarf towards Jingles without breaking stride.

Adding a spin to his dodge, Jingles looks like a dancer as the rock sails past him. He moves at an angle away from his support still scrambling out of the brush. His hand raises from his lute, pointing at the cyclops. "The perfect trinity: blind, ugly, and stupid!"

Those unfamiliar with the spell Vicious Mockery wouldn't understand how words could hurt a creature over fifteen feet tall, but the results are hard to ignore. It stops running to grab its head as pain pulses through its feeble mind. It throws a rock the size of a house cat, but this flies only vaguely in the direction of the caravan crew. None bother ducking as they ready their weapons.

Forty feet separate the two forces now, a dancing clown dividing the distance almost evenly. Rather than attacking, his fingers find the strings of his lute. He begins a blistering solo, creating music doesn't seem possible with the instrument, harmonies that can't be from this world. Four of the six archers feel the energy of the song in their bodies and the raw bravery coursing through their veins. They channel that into a volley of bolts at the cyclops. One catches the creature in the neck, three add holes to its chest, and one pierces a thigh. Only one shot sails wide.

"Die for that!" Now beyond rage, the monster tries one last time to bowl the insects over with a rock. This time, it's not the headache that makes him miss, but the music. It can feel the tune wriggling into his mind, making it see things. Visions of a strange city flash across its sight, a ruin where the walls don't meet at the angles they should. The distraction makes the final rock toss go the entirely wrong direction.

"Aim for the chest!" Jingles roars. Not shouts: roars almost like the creature he's fighting. He puts his lute on his back, opting instead to wield a sickle and dagger. As he closes the distance between them, he points to the sky above the cyclops. An orb of pure darkness fills the air, sucking the light from the day. The creature's head and shoulders disappear into the sphere, but most of its torso is still plain as day.

The bard's magic may have worn off, but his effect is still pushing the crew. He's hurting the creature's mind without even touching it. How can they lose with him on their side? They open another volley of bolts at the monster, letting their overconfidence get the best of them. Only one strikes the creature in the chest, just below the magic sphere. The rest try to aim for the top of the chest and head, all missing their targets entirely.

Now blind for reasons it can't understand, the cyclops swings wildly in hopes of hitting the small clown it saw somewhere near its feet. Jingles dodges each swing easily, then hooks into the creature's thigh with his blades. He laughs as his weapons glow, the dagger black and sickle a deep purple. "Something for the body and the mind!"

Instantly, the leg shows signs of a severe infection, as if it's rotting off instantly. What's not visible is the new pain in the cyclops' head: its brain burns as it's flooded with the clown's howling laughter.

As another four crossbow bolts sail past the creature and two find their mark in its shoulders, it makes a directed punch at the pain in its leg. Jingles rotates to take the hit as a glance rather than squarely, but it's still enough to launch him across the field. He lands with a dislocated shoulder some ten feet away. The concentration he held to keep the darkness is broken, and the sphere disappears.

"Should have run!" the cyclops screams at the small creatures before it. It's tired of these intruders on his road, especially after all they pain they've caused. It's more than ready for payback and a snack. Taking one step forward, it lowers himself into a charging stance.

As the crew take off for the bushes, a voice roars across the forest. "They are mine, you insolent fool!"

Turning towards the sound, the cyclops almost gasps at the sight. The clown is not only up, he's bigger! Easily ten feet tall, he's almost as large as the cyclops. He holds his blades at either side, an invitation in any language. "What else have you got!?"

Overcoming its surprise, the creature pivots and charges the giant clown. It makes the conscious decision to kill him quickly as it remembers the pain and laughter in its mind. It won't make the mistake of giving him a chance to do magic again. So at one step away, the cyclops lowers its shoulder and leaps at the clown for a tackle, intending to knock him to the ground and crush his face.

But instead, it goes through the clown. No resistance, no cold feeling, nothing. On the way down, it gets a brief glance at a normal size Jester standing beside the big one, pulling his shoulder back into place. The cyclops slams into the ground at full speed, stunning itself when it slides into a tree.

A fire scorches across the cyclops' face. Still dazed from the fall, its attempt to roll away is only a flail. Jingles is laughing again, pure mania in his voice as flames erupt from his hands. "What's wrong, little one? Was that your good eye?"

Finally finding its coordination, the cyclops pushes itself off the ground a moment too late. The bard is attached to his neck now, holding onto a tuft of hair at the back of its head. As it reaches back to swat him away, he hears a final chuckle.

"Thanks for the adventure." The snap of fingers is the last sound it hears before the Shatter spell liquifies the brain in its head.

Most of the fleeing caravan members stop when they hear the sudden ringing noise from behind. Two of them turn where they are in confusion, while three others hide behind trees before risking a look. The final member continues running towards the convoy. His companions are treated to the sight of a dead cyclops with bleeding ears while a clown rides the crumbling corpse. It falls with a thud, causing a small tremor before laying flat on the ground. Jingles bows from atop the creature as if it were a stage.

"Now... other than the one who left a trail of piss, which of you is the fastest?" the clown asks with a breathy laugh.

Looks are exchanged between the halfling, two humans, the elf, and a dwarf. The elf slowly raises his hand.

Jingles pats him on the shoulder. "Tell our boss the monster has been dealt with. We need a priest for our dead guide, and an ale for my shoulder. Can you manage that, pretty please?"

Suddenly, the first boulder thrown at the group is propelled back the way it came from. Holy light pours from the crater it made, the aasimar marching out of it. Glorious wings protrude from Anwal's back, and his eyes have just as much illumination behind them. He's traded his shattered bow for a long sword almost as shiny as the wielder.

"Hmm... Forget the priest, not the ale," Jingles chuckles lightly, then nudges his courier towards the caravan. "I didn't stutter, did I? Go on, shoo."

The elf takes the hint and leaves at a decent jog.

The now angelic ranger looks over the field and seems slightly disappointed. "How long was I out?" he asks, still glowing.

Jingles shrugs with one shoulder. "A minute. No one died, other than what was supposed to."

He glances over to the crumpled heap that was the cyclops. A part of his mind notes Jingles' eyes are a deep orange, and swears they were they blue before. "Did the crew do that?"

"They fired the arrows. Feel free to ask them who did the most work."

"Well, good... Thank you for helping," he admits slowly. As the radiant light fades away, Anwal notices the clown favoring his injured shoulder. He uses a bit of his magic and holy power to put Jingles back together.

The Jester pats his comrade's side. "I appreciate that, as well as getting up before we tried to bury you."

"You're welcome," the aasimar says, removing the hand from his body. "Shall we take the others back to the convoy?"

"Do as you wish. But I wager the cyclops' cave has some trinkets, and I've done more than enough to earn first pick. Our employer can divide the takings after I've found my souvenir." With another nod and bow, Jingles walks across the clearing towards a hole in the hill. Anwal tries his best to ignore how badly he was shown up by a clown as he heads for confused laborers.

The cave must have been a tight squeeze for the cyclops when it wasn't sleeping. Divided into a central chamber with three small alcoves, it's obvious what purpose each served. The left holds a fire pit for cooking, and the back is too full of crushed leaves to be anything other than a bed. On the right is the creature's collection, thrown into a rough pile taller than the bard. Judging by the glistening baubles scattered throughout, it had only gathered the random things that caught its eye.

Jingles absently plays riffs on his lute as he investigates, occasionally poking the pile with his foot. He watches several snow globes roll down as he disturbs the stack's balance, along with a silver wheel and a candelabra. Pretty in a gaudy sort of way, but nothing of value. There's not even anything small for him to carry as a souvenir. Maybe he'll have to settle for a tooth from the cyclops.

Circling the loot, something to the side finally catches his cobalt eye. A beautiful lute is leaned against the wall. The cyclops took great care to set it here, somehow understanding the value of the instrument. Jingles puts his own lute away and approaches the treasure slowly with an outstretched hand. A little voice in his head tells him to be careful, even if he doesn't know why.

It's a bandore actually, not a standard lute. The scallop shaped body is as much a giveaway as the extra length to the neck. As the clown's covered fingers graze the strings, he feels the instrument resist. Not the feeling of physically touching something else, but it pushing back. The instrument itself is magical, almost alive with energy. And it's not happy someone is touching it.

"You're not like the others," Jingles whispers. "No, you have fangs. Don't you, love?"

He firmly wraps his hand around the neck of the bandore. He feels the energy again, this time stronger and fighting his mind. It would hurt almost anyone else. But either Jingles' magic or his manic mind shields him from the pain. The only result is the urge to laugh more.

"It's ok... Don't be afraid. We'll get along wonderfully. I already know it," he coos.

Slinging the strap over his shoulder, Jingles notes how he doesn't need to adjust the length at all. He practices a quick riff, feeling the instrument fight him again. But there is less resistance this time, less violence in the response.

"Atta girl, Jessie. There's a doomed world of adventure waiting for us out there. Would you care to accompany me?" he asks lovingly.

He strums a chord, and Jessie answers beautifully. It seems to welcome the contact, the chance to make music with a proper player. A pleasant, gentle tingle of magic flows through the bard.

Jingles smiles beneath his mask. "Here's to a wonderful partnership."

* * *

So we went two weeks without having a session (yay schedule conflicts), and I had to scratch my itch to use my crazy clown character... This is the result. It's not a full origin story for Jingles and doesn't quite go as far into his mania/lore as I'd like, but that's for another day. This was just a for fun moment with his story, one of the defining moments that my clown still thinks about. After all, he loves his lute dearly. Figured you all would at least appreciate how he earns her. Enjoy! ~MGA

And for those of you who know D&D, Jessie is an Instrument of the Bards, specifically a Fochlucan Bandore. And my DM is less than thrilled that he now has to deal with a clown that can fly because of a magical instrument. Especially after it was used to carry a small child 200+ feet into the air, then drop her with Feather Fall to keep her safe while the fighting below was dealt with.


	3. Therapy, Jingles Style

The Story So Far...

It's been 147 years since the gods went away. No god was spared, and no rhyme or reason has ever been discovered. Followers can still draw from the power vacuums left behind, but they are left without guidance or direction. At the same time, the boundaries between planes broke in several places, unleashing a literal Hell on the earth. It's taken over a century of destruction, war, and chaos for things to reach an equilibrium again. Most of the land is still claimed by monsters and creatures almost forgotten, and tiny villages vastly outnumber the few large cities where civilization is trying to reestablish itself. But normal, non-monstrous life is still finding a way to get by.  
Thanks to the vast swaths of No Man's Land between towns, communication is nearly impossible without powerful mages. This led to the creation of Longwalkers: freelance couriers, warriors, and monster slayers who will brave the countryside to deliver messages in exchange for payment. Sometimes travelling in groups, sometimes alone, and sometimes functioning as caravan guards, Longwalkers never have a shortage of work. Such is this group, who quickly found their job of escorting a merchant becoming infinitely more complicated.  
Five Longwalkers were hired: Viola, the half-elf Daemon Hunter with a blighted arm and a homeland that wants her dead; Almaz, a Fire Genasi who serves as a professional monster hunter, Viola's long time friend, and her voice of reason; Jingles, the demented entertainer from the renowned and feared College of the Jester; Nera, a trickster god worshiping paladin barely contained in a three foot tall tibbit package; and Leukan, the aged elf warlock struggling with the aftermath of his deal with his patron.

Paid to escort the merchant Quinterson and his very young daughter Kiara, the group fulfilled their contract to the letter until their boat dropped them off. Finding the small dock town and his ride home demolished, the merchant quickly negotiated a new deal with the Longwalkers to take them to the Golden City. Along the way, they stopped in a small town to rest and resupply. Upon discovering signs of the same blight that destroyed Viola's and Almaz's hometown in a neighboring farm, the group decided to assist. They killed the violent victims of the plague and destroyed the meteorite that served as the apparent cause of the sickness. After being paid, they accepted one last request before continuing to the Golden City: deal with the monster that was destroying the traps they used to hunt in the forest.

It turns out the monster was a trained troll, a scout for a small army of gnolls, trolls, and other monsters led by something called the Ashfallen. As the party dealt with this creature, the town fell to the Ashfallen's siege. They repelled the advanced force so the town could evacuate, but discovered Quinterson and Kiara had already fled on their own. Luckily, the party found them that night deep in the forest. All agreed to rest, then move with haste in the morning.

They woke to their camp surrounded by cultists, deamanding Kiara as a sacrifice for their "Shepherd, a being so great non-worshipers are not allowed to know its true name." The party, particularly Leukan and Nera, replied with weapons. In the ensuing brawl, Quinterson was killed and his daughter was taken by their leader, but the cult lost a majority of its members. The Longwalkers quickly decided they were not leaving Kiara behind, and Jingles was left alone with the surviving cultist to ask where their base was. The Jester got his directions in less than five minutes, and the cultist was allowed to flee, screaming about the approaching apocalypse at the hands of the Great Old Ones.

A siege was laid upon the cult's temple before lunch. They discovered that the sacrifice Kiara was undergoing was actually a transformation, a process to make her in the image of their deity. Seeing as the rite had changed two other cultists into Nothics, the party chose to intervene. The last of the cult fell to the blades of the Longwalkers, and Kiara was saved before the ritual could be completed. She was partially transformed, now sporting a third eye and an arm that could change into talons like those of a Nothic, but seemed to still be herself in her mind.

After accidentally angering the Shepherd itself and destroying the temple, the party continued their trek to the Golden City. It was the only place Kiara had family left, and where they would be paid for their efforts. It was mostly quiet as they trekked through the forest, interrupted only by brief stops to eat and rest. But Kiara regularly broke down crying in the beginning, remembering the sight of her father being slaughtered by the cultists. This was something Jingles refused to accept, and made it his personal mission to fix. Much to the party's terror.

* * *

 **Therapy, Jingles Style**

Almaz notices that Jingles is slowly drifting towards him as they move through the forest. He initially thought it just the odd walk of his, but then decides the clown is deliberately working his way over. The constant, healthy paranoia in Almaz's head makes him keep an eye on the Jester, not sure what to expect. Just because he's friendly doesn't mean he isn't... odd.

He quickly looks over to Viola and makes a small hand gesture. After too many years of travelling together, they've developed their own type of code for whenever the need arises. The half-elf nods and sets her glare on the clown. Her nose continues to work feverishly, smelling out possible threats before they can be seen.

Jingles is playing a meandering tune on his lute when he finally reaches the Fire Genasi. He never looks directly at Almaz, only glancing in his direction occasionally. His eyes are focused on the other side of the party instead. On Kiara, who's sitting on the horse Nera summoned. The paladin herself is in her cat form on the back of her steed, napping near the child still occasionally sobbing. It's an improvement from the hysterical crying she's been doing all morning, but only a small one.

"That's no mood to leave a child in," the clown says quietly. He's still only looking to her, not the monster hunter beside him. "Don't you agree?"  
Almaz shrugs slowly. "There's not much we can do about it. Unless you've learned how to revive her father."

"Drat, I must've been sick when Sparkles taught that one," he chuckles. Something about the laugh makes Almaz vaguely uncomfortable. But then, so does almost everything he does. "But we can always make the best of it. A dead body is no reason for tears."

"Depends on whose body it is. Family usually qualifies," Viola snarks as she gets closer to the conversation.

"The angry one has words of wisdom hiding underneath all that fury?" Jingles jokes. He camouflages a side step away from her with a small spin. "You are both right and wrong. Loved ones should be mourned, but we cannot let grief overtake us. Not even for a day."

The Blood Hunter huffs under his breath before speaking. "I wouldn't call you a role model for emotional health."

"Pardon my saying so, but I've yet to see proper smile from either of you. Ever. Are you suggesting you are better at coping with this world than I?" The clown removes a hand from his lute, and adds an illusionary smile to his mask. Now it looks just like a theater pantomime mask, and somehow makes Jingles seem slightly stranger than before.

"We haven't had much of a reason to," Viola says, scanning around the group again. "Your jokes aren't funny enough to change that."

The fake grin quickly changes to a frown. The Jester looks to his companions with his vibrant blue eyes and a tilted head. "If I still had a heart, my feelings would be hurt, Viola."

Kiara lets out another sob, loud enough to get their attention. She keeps her face buried in her hands, facing forward and away from them. The cat sits up at the sound. She shows some compassion and approaches the child. Curling up into a traditional feline ball again, Nera leans against Kiara's back. Her tuxedo fur shines as she rubs her head on her and purrs. It seems to settle the child slightly.

"I see only three options at the moment," Jingles says quietly. "Either she stays a sobbing wreck, becomes a frowning bore like the rest of you, or at least smiles and laughs. Which is more appropriate for a child?"

"Think I know which one you prefer," Almaz sighs.

Humming to himself, the clown allows his magic to fade from his mask. He begins playing another random medley. It's more wandering than usual, a slow drifting rather than a manic run. "What to do, what to do..."

"Anything other than your usual schtick," Viola groans. She's only mildly terrifying as she twirls a great ax as large as her with one hand.

He seems to ignore the comment, or not even notice it through his own chaotic thoughts. "What are you thinking, Jessie? We have to pull out all of the stops... Yes, music is a given, don't worry... We don't have the props for a proper puppet show..."

Almaz checks the perimeter again, then watches the clown. His eyes are still blue, so he's not feeling violent, but that doesn't mean much. Even the help he's given has been unorthodox. He still has a vivid memory of Jingles distracting the Ashfallen with ungodly loud bagpipes. It makes Almaz paranoid, to put it mildly.

"She does seem the adventurous type... Perfect," the Jester laughs proudly.

"Try not to involve fire. Or bagpipes," Almaz says.

Jingles turns to face his companions. "Oh, worry not. I may even make it a productive distraction, should the mood strike me." He gives a theatrical bow, arms spread wide and lute in one hand. "If you would excuse me, my true job as a Jester is calling."

Almaz and Viola both curse under their breath as the clown walks away.

Approaching the horse and riders, Leukan finally comes into view from the other side. The elf is watching ahead carefully with his bow, and only partially turns to acknowledge Jingles. He's been surprisingly indifferent to the Jester's presence, often seemingly distracted by something else on his mind. An effective warlock and decent archer, but not one for good company.

"I will be borrowing Kiara," Jingles informs him. "We shall be back in, oh, fifteen minutes? Is there any direction in particular we should scout?"

Leukan vaguely points the direction he's already walking. "If you have to, look to the north. But do so as safely as you can: this forest has killed enough of us this week."

"That's what makes it exciting." The clown adds a brief chuckle to the end.

The warlock briefly aims his bow towards a tree at his right, but lowers it after a moment. "Just keep the child safe. I don't want to bury her as well."

Jingles briefly wonders if he's wrong about who needs to smile the most in this group, and then dismisses it. Whatever is bothering Leukan is complicated. That will take time. Kiara, on the other hand, is simple. He can at least help her today.

Kiara's still sitting on the horse, still softly crying into her hands. Jingles walks beside the steed and wonders what's the best way to get her attention. After a moment or two, he decides her stuffed rabbit will do nicely.

Reaching behind her and carefully dodging the napping cat, he pulls the toy from her saddle bag. He sets it in the front of her, balanced so it doesn't fall. All it takes is a bit of magic, and it begins squeaking like a real pet. He could manage a moving, talking illusion of a rabbit if he tried, but that would take more magic than he wants to use right now. He has bigger plans for that.

Initially, Kiara doesn't react. Jingles makes the sounds slightly louder, but she sobs through those as well. He dismisses the spell for a moment while he thinks of what to change, then snaps his fingers.

"Why are you crying, Kiara?" the stuffed creature asks in a tiny voice. "Am I not fun anymore?"

That stops her. She looks up and tries to understand how the unfamiliar voice is coming from her toy.

Jingles moves the fluffy arm in a wave. "The clown man wants to play. He says he knows a game even more fun than the ones we played on the boat," his mind makes the rabbit squeak.

"Well, it's only sort of a game, but it will be lots of fun," he says in his normal voice. He keeps looking at the rabbit rather than her, selling the act. "And I think Kiara would be perfect for it."

The toy, aided by Jingles' hand, shakes its head. "I don't know, Funny Clown Man. She told me she doesn't like heights."

"Only because she hasn't experienced them for herself. Tell me, Little Fluffy One: has she ever told you if she dreams about being a bird? Maybe a proud falcon, or a pretty cardinal?"

Jingles turns the rabbit to its owner. "Was it a different bird? I'm sorry, Kiara: my stuffing brain always forgets these things. What kind of bird did you dream about being?"

She wipes one eye with the back of her hand, definitely avoiding the side of her face with the extra, mutated eye. "Owl. It was an owl..." Her voice is soft, but steady. The clown's bet has paid off.

"An owl, right!" the toy squeaks. "That was my next guess. Or maybe the one after that."

"I bet she likes how pretty they are, or how quietly they fly," Jingles guesses to the rabbit.

"They sound funny when they hoot," the child laughs a little through leaking eyes. "Like they keep asking who's there."

Jingles turns to Kiara, nudging the toy towards her. "Why don't we pretend we are flying birds together? You can be the owl who's wondering who's out there, and he can be a pretty little hummingbird. I'll be a dodo!"

"Dodo's don't fly, Jingles," Kiara giggles. "They have to run with their stubby little wings."

"I don't have wings, but I can still fly. Because I don't listen to those who tell me I can't. I bet those dummy dodos could too if no one ever told them they couldn't."

The clown has gotten closer to her and is nearly whispering now. He makes a spectacle of looking around to see if the others are listening. Then he puts a hand to her ear. "I told the others we would fly high and scout for them. With all of our eyes, we can see so much more than just me. They don't have to know we're just pretending to be birds. What do you say?"

Kiara is finally smiling a little, but it doesn't last forever. The slight frown returns as her giggles subside. "I don't know..."

He picks up the rabbit and holds it before him in a tight hug. "Come on... It'll be fun."

"Please, Kiara?" the toy pleads. "I've always wanted to be a hummingbird."

To seal the deal, Jingles changes his illusion to a visual one. The rabbit's once plain brown fur is now the same color of the bird it so desperately wants to be. With a bright red belly and head, highlighted by vibrant green everywhere else, it is one of the most unique stuffed animals ever imagined.

"Look, he would be so pretty as a humming bird! Can you really tell him no?" Jingles asks.

That gets a true laugh out of her. "Only because Peter looks so funny... We can fly, Jingles."

As Kiara climbs off of the horse, Jingles takes his sickle to the rope from his pack. He cuts off two portions, each one a little longer than his arm span, then sets his bag where Kiara was sitting. Nera lets out a small growl as her bed is disturbed, but Jingles pays no mind. He shows a surprising gentleness as he secures the child to him with the ropes, one around her ribs and one just above her knees. They can't walk like this, but the harness seems strong enough for the clown's needs. Neither one gives any mind to the rest of the party's stares.

"Ready to see the land like a bird?" he asks with a soft laugh.

She nods, hugging her toy rabbit tightly to her chest. She's slowly losing the signs of the happiness he's worked so hard to create.

Jingles unslings his lute from his back, and holds it before them. "A little hand, please, Jessie," he says as he strums a three quick chords.

His instrument glows, and the pair lift an inch or so from the ground. Kiara stretches her toes down, confirming for herself that gravity really has decided to ignore them. The clown chuckles as he puts Jessie away. He remembers the first time he realized they could perform that trick together, the freedom he felt. How addictive it still is.

Straightening his body out, he takes off into the air. Kiara yelps at the sudden change and clings tighter to her rabbit. Jingles ignores it and continues flying towards the open sky. After getting maybe thirty feet above the treeline, he begins doing slow loops and twirls.

Kiara starts to smile on the fourth gentle spin, and then laughing on the sixth. Jingles reaches down and grips her wrists. Too busy enjoying herself, she doesn't stop him from spreading her arms to each side like a bird's wings. Peter remains firmly gripped in her right hand, his fluff flowing freely in the rushing wind.

Jingles releases Kiara's wrists and produces Jessie again, holding her just under the child's arms. He begins playing a catchy tune, one at his usual, rapid pace. _Gods only know the places I've been, but I love this life that I'm living in_ _..._ he sings merrily. The smile under his mask can almost be heard in his voice.

They jerk to a stop, surprising Kiara again in a good way. She lets out a small hoot of laughter as the clown propels them straight up as fast as he can. _I won't look back to regret yesterday. We're not handed tomorrow, so I'll live for today_ _..._

Jingles pulls another loop in the sky, this time leveling out so he's flying parallel with the ground hundreds of feet above the tallest trees. He secures Jessie again, and joins Kiara in holding his arms out wide. Giggling, he says, "Who says dodos and fools can't fly?"

The girl laughs. "HOOT, HOOT!" she shouts at the top of her lungs in a terrible owl imitation.

"What sound does a dodo actually make? I've never heard one," Jingles comments. "Does it sound something like this?" And then he lets out the worst screech he can manage, as if someone just throat punched a rooster learning to crow.

"Maybe if you stepped on its stubby wings," she giggles happily.

The clown laughs and lets her enjoy the view in silence. He closes his eyes, quietly hoping there's not an actual bird for them to hit up here. After a minute, Kiara does the same and angles her face into the wind. It's too fast to be called a breeze, but it feels wonderful regardless.

"Jessie and I can only hold us here for a few more minutes," Jingles says softly, slowing their flight just enough he doesn't need to shout. "She's finicky like that, only letting me use her magic for so long. Soon, we will have to stop. Then we will walk like we did before. Nothing we can say will make her let us fly again today."

Kiara squirms in her homemade harness. The clown looks to the back of her head, and it occurs to him he would be better at this if he could look at her face. Right now, he can't even tell if her eyes are still closed, or if she's started crying again.

But he continues, letting the wind ripple through his costume. His mania drips back into his tone, soft giggles obscuring some of his words. "But that is life. This world is almost comically bad, isn't it? As if it's trying to be taken seriously by being as depressing as it can manage. And just as we cannot make Jessie fly us again today, we cannot change this world."

Without warning, Jingles undoes the knots holding the harness together. As Kiara starts to fall, he grabs her arm and stops his flight. She stays quiet, neither fear nor pain making her yelp. As he hoists her back up to him, he sees the tears welling in her eyes again. He knew it was coming, but it doesn't stop him from feeling like he's failed.

"But there is still joy to be had, little one," he says softly, leaning his head down so she has no choice but to face him. "That's what it means to be a Jester. To smile in the face of dark times, and to help others do the same. To laugh at the bad days and know they can't hurt us any more than we allow them to."

Kiara wipes the tears from her eyes. She even braves touching the new one on her right side. "How do I do that?" she asks in a soft, broken voice. "I can't think about Daddy without... I keep thinking about those men with the robes, and-"

"You focus on the good times with him," Jingles interrupts. "You remember when you smiled together instead, the days when your father showed you how he loved you. Give me an example: what did he do that always made you happy?"

She contorts her face as she tries to think. It's not in sorrow or anger, but concentration through what remains of her tears. "At Grandpa's shop... we would put on magic shows. Daddy would use a wand to make pretty lights, or we would play shadow puppets with it."

"Then that is what you think of, Kiara. I know there are more times like that buried in your mind, ones you simply need to dust off and think of again. You choose to remember those wonderful memories: life is too short to dwell on the others," the clown concludes with a gentle tone. He nods and taps a finger to her nose. "Do you think you can do that?"

She nods slowly, the tears in her eyes almost completely gone. "I can try."

"That's my girl. I'm proud of you." He makes a mess of her hair with one hand, almost dropping her. They both laugh as he catches her again.

"Jingles?" she asks.

"Yes, little one?"

"Will you help me with the remembering? In case I start thinking about... Please?"

Pulling her in to give his arms a break, Jingles starts flying up again slowly. "What else do I have to do with my days? Take up knitting?"

She laughs again, the broken tone of her voice almost gone. "Thank you, Funny Clown Man."

"Have I mentioned I love that nickname? It's so much more fun than 'annoying asshole' like the others insist on."

Jingles feels the last of Jessie's magic starting to fade. He knows he can maintain their flight for another thirty seconds at best. It was fun while it lasted.

"May I make a suggestion, Kiara?"

She looks to him earnestly, and nods.

"We fly as high as we can, and we say goodbye to your father. You take a moment to thank him for everything, and promise not to forget him. One last time to mourn him."

"I think... I think he'd like that," she says softly. "He deserves that, doesn't he?"

"Yes, he does." Jingles pulls her in close and flies as fast as he can straight up. The wind slams into them, but they continue past the few clouds left in the sky. Their magic and speed doesn't start to run out until they're above the white puffs.

"Do it now," he whispers. "Where he and the angels can hear us."

Kiara closes her eyes, and allows a tear filled smile to cover her face. "I love you, Daddy. And I'll always miss you."

As the last words leave her mouth, they stall in the air. And then begin plummeting towards the ground.

Jingles lets them pass back through the clouds before he does anything. Then he releases Kiara, and puts a foot of distance between them while casting his spell. Kiara, Peter the Rabbit, and himself all slow their descent to a safe, moderate pace. Feather Fall is a wonderful bit of magic, perfect for the days he doesn't feel like climbing down a ladder. Or when he feels like free falling.

He lets out a loud, "WHOO!" before doing a quick trio of rolls.

Kiara looks at him, confused.

"The spell will land us safely," he laughs happily. "Who says we can't enjoy the fall?"

Feeling brave, she tries to do a cartwheel in the air. It's a terrible attempt, one that would surely make her fall on solid ground. But here, it just brings a smile to her face.

"How many flips can I do before I vomit? I bet more than you can!" The clown initiates the challenge by going into a massive end over end spin.

Kiara follows suit immediately after, and manages a dozen to Jingles' fifteen before they both have to stop. Then an idea hits her. "We can be flying warrior monks!" she shouts, striking a martial arts pose a foot from his face.

Jingles counters her monkey paw strike with a crane kick. She immediately returns fire with a spinning roundhouse that narrowly misses his mask.

The pair laugh and "fight" like madmen the whole way down, gently falling through the trees without injury. Kiara makes sure she catches Peter and keeps him from getting dirty in the mud. The Jester lands with a practiced bow. They continue laughing as the ecstasy in their bodies takes its sweet time leaving.

Jingles pats her on the shoulder, and points to the south. "I believe I saw the others that way," he says. "One of us has to tell them about the great fun we had pretending to be birds, don't we?"

Kiara nods, hugging Peter tightly. "Dibs!"

"Drat, beat me to it!" He kicks the dirt theatrically, making them both laugh again.

As they begin walking, he looks down to her. "You remember my lesson, right?"

Her smile fades, but only for a second before it returns in almost full force. "Life is too short to think about sad things. We focus on fun instead."

"'Atta girl," he laughs. "Do you know what that means?"

She shakes her head.

"It means you've completed your first lesson of Jester training." He leans over for another dramatic whisper. "That means you've earned your first piece of the costume."

"Really?" Amazement more than confusion fills her face. As if her childhood idol has just said she really is their number one fan.

"Yes, really: would I lie to you? You can have a spare mask from my pack. Though I suppose I'll have to cut a new hole for your eye in it," he laughs softly. "But that is why I have several. So you have one you can always keep."

"Do I get two if I beat you there in a race?" she asks with a mischievous grin.

He leans over to her and puts a hand on her shoulder. "I'll take that bet. Because you don't stand a chance."

Without warning, he sprints toward the direction he thinks his teammates are. Kiara keeps close behind him, yelling at him about his 'cheating.'

* * *

Since I've been told my D&D stories can be difficult to follow, I'm trying a new format. I'll try including a small recap of the story before the actual tale, at least to refresh people on character names before diving into the meat of things. Feel free to give me input on that, what works, what doesn't, etc!

Anyway, my DM and I still regularly talk between sessions about what Jingles is doing, so we're not slowing down the actual sessions with everyone there. For things like this, where Jingles is bonding with they child they're escorting, it's not worth wasting the time we have where everyone can talk and play. All of us do it, which is how Nera the paladin suddenly made a warlock pact between sessions and Leukan had a small meeting with his patron. But for me, that gives me a reason to write a tiny story to describe exactly why something amusingly weird happened next session. Like Kiara suddenly having a mini Jester costume and liking Jingles more than usual.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have more random ideas to try to put down to paper. I'm having an idea surge right now, and I plan on making the best of it.

Also, the song Jingles sings is "Live for Today" by 3 Doors Down. Links will be posted in my Tumblr as always! ~MGA


	4. Competing Jesters

About the only context you shall need for this one is it takes place before the actual campaign and after he found his magic lute. The rest of it, at least, I feel like is explained enough a big recap like before is just excessive this time around. So enjoy!

* * *

 _It's a pretty good crowd for a Saturday, and the manager gives me a smile..._ Jingles sings, keeping his voice only slightly louder than his music. Usually he has to compete with tavern noise as well, but not here. Jesters, particularly himself, are respected enough in The Red Hook to have their own stage constructed, and their audience to shut up during performances.

 _'Cause she knows that it's me they've been coming to see, to forget about life for a while..._

He mimes playing a piano across his table, and the proper notes fill the air. His usual performances involve playing a lute while his magic gives him accompaniment. But for his "Table Piano" act, the audience reacts better to a clown getting music out of a normal piece of furniture.

 _And the piano sounds like a festival, and my bar stool smells like a beer. They sit at the bar and put coin in my jar, and say, "Man, what are you doin' here?"_

Jingles shows off a little and pretends to play with only one hand. That gets a small burst of laughter, but it's nothing compared to the roar he earns when he plays with his feet. He's performed this one across the continent, all just practice for his bi-annual performance at this particular tavern. There'll be someone in particular he wants to impress this winter.

 _Sing us a song, clown piano man..._ he sings, pretending to focus on his instrument part again. _Sing us a song tonight. Well, we're all in the mood for a melody. And you've got us feeling alright._

He begins winding the song down to its familiar close. The door of the tavern opens on the other side of the floor, spraying a crack of late afternoon light the audience. No one look up to see who the newcomer is. All three dozen of the patrons paid good coin to see this performance, and they won't let a stranger ruin it for them.

Suddenly, the clown's table betrays him. A sparkling golden dragon erupts from the wood and lunges at him. Jingles scrambles back in a roll, his hands already drawing a sickle and dagger. His cool blue eyes flash to orange as he swings at the beast. It roars and dodges by an inch. Half of the crowd is standing in their seats with eyes glued, and the other are desperately looking for the exit.

The performer almost attacks again when he notices the table is still intact. With a hidden, knowing smile, he opens his arms wide and shouts, "Take me, you beautiful creature!"

It accepts the sacrifice. The small dragon rears back and roars a cascade of glorious fire on the clown. Everyone in the audience is convinced they're watching the spectacular death of a Jester.

But the glittering breath flows only flows around his body. Jingles holds the pose, enjoying the attention. When the "attack" ends, the dragon stands on its back legs and roars again. It makes the glasses of ale rattle on their tables. Then the creature takes to the air, flying over the patrons and towards the tavern's entrance. Most of those directly in its path duck.

It performs a brief aerial spin, then lands regally beside the newcomer. Dressed almost identically to the performer on stage, there's no mistaking them for anything other than another Jester. Both wear the distinct red costume, both with the featureless pantomime mask and jingling hat, both with a sickle on one hip and an instrument on their back. But most would agree the dragon tamer is more composed: their bow shines from obvious care, and the patches that have repaired their costume are a consistent royal blue.

Jingles laughs and bows to them from the stage. Several of the audience look to him for an explanation. "Clearly, I need lessons on dramatic entrances," he says through a chuckle. His eyes have already come back to the cool blue they were before. "And I believe I'm looking at just the teacher."

The newcomer laughs. Other than her slim build, her voice is the first sign this other Jester is a woman. "Perhaps I will trade you for ones in music. I've never seen anyone get such sounds out of a table."

"Ladies and gentlemen," the clown on stage announces. "May I present the ever-darling Arwen and her ever-terrifying pet."

She returns his curtsey as the crowd applauds her. "I thank you, as does Rex. Please, bow as well: you deserve it more than myself."

The small dragon leans forward and lowers its head to the ground. As it stands to further clapping, its owner opens a small canteen. It turns to dust that flows into the bottle without a sound.

"You will be fine in there until dinner. We'll find you a nice sheep, I promise," she says and pats the canteen into her chest pouch. Just like Jingles, a strange chuckle is almost always in her voice, obscuring some of her words.

The innkeeper shouts from behind the bar, "We were starting to worry about you. Your partner has been waiting for three days now."

Arwen waves in acknowledgment while approaching the stage. "I'm terribly sorry, Samantha. Our caravan ran into that bugbear problem you were having to the north."

"Guess that's the safest way to go now?" Sam is already pouring an ale for the Jester, to match the one her partner has been nursing for the last half hour.

"If you wish to avoid bugbears particularly. Their hobgoblin's convinced the road will electrocute them if they touch it without shoes." Arwen laughs happily.

The crowd joins in her chuckle. Jingles helps his partner onto the stage with a hand. She accepts, and uses it to pull herself up. They exchange a pair of masked cheek kisses before taking a step apart.

Sam approaches from the side, ale in hand. As Arwen reaches for the drink, Jingles' voice appears in her mind. "A gold dragon? That's really the best you could come up with?"

"I believe it worked well enough. Your leap was proof of that," she replies telepathically. This particular spell requires actually whispering, which makes it easier to cast, but harder to hide. However, Jester masks helps conceal any conversations they would like to have alone.

"What can I say? I've been on edge lately. I've missed my dear friend."

"We shall see who missed who more soon enough." Her laughter is audible this time, enough for Sam to notice, but barely react to. She's mostly acclimated to the Jesters and their penchant for unexplained giggles. "But I believe we have a performance to put on first."

Now standing with her drink, Arwen does a quick spin. In less than three seconds, she puts her back to the audience, lifts the mask to her nose, swallows a large sip of ale, and lowers the covering back down. Just like that, her thirst is sated, and only the other Jester in the room knows what lies beneath the costume.

"What shall the bet be this time?" she asks with her mind. "A public surrender to the superior performer? Perhaps a polishing of the other's weapons?"

"Both should be enough. We shall be more creative with tomorrow's wager," Jingles agrees silently.

Standing side by side, the Jesters are eyed expectantly by the waiting crowd. Arwen looks to her competitor and produces a single silver coin. "Heads or tails?"

He knocks on the side of his skull, and an empty echo sounds. After a moment, the audience realizes it's an illusion and laughs.

She flips the coin high into the air, and catches it in her open palm. The emblem of a horse is clearly on display.

"My fabulous audience, I thank you for coming to see us," she announces, stepping towards the crowd in a grand pose. Her pack falls to the side with only a slight thud. "I could make you extravagant promises about our performances. How they will be everything you've ever wanted in a night of entertainment, how they will leave each and every one of you with a smile, or that no one will forget the spectacles you're about to witness...

"But I won't. Because I know your own kind words will describe what you feel tonight greater than I can." She pauses as applause greets her. Not one of the thirty-six members of her crowd doesn't at least take part.

Eventually, it dies down enough for her to be heard again. "What I can promise is this. Jingles and I shall compete tonight for your applause. Two entertainers from one of the finest colleges in the land will be trying to prove who is better to each other, and to you. And I promise that I have yet to hear someone who observes such a duel leave disappointed. So make sure your ears are clean and your eyes are open wide. I would hate for you to miss a moment."

Arwen doesn't waste a second. With a sweeping hand, she commands the wind to close every window and douse every torch. The room becomes midnight black instantly. Then the Jester produces a small light in her hand, a tiny golden orb pulsing like a lightning bug. It begins circling her, dodging her attempts to catch it again. After sufficiently irritating her, it drifts a few feet above her head.

Then it explodes into a brief shower of sparks. The loud pop makes a dozen voices gasp in surprise. Arwen waits a beat before creating three more of the tiny illusions. They immediately fly over the crowd in a mad cyclone before detonating at opposite corner of the audience. Only one member tries to dodge the sparks that rain down, but he laughs when he realizes they're harmless.

The Jester creates a cluster of orbs in her hand, and she throws them at each member of the crowd. They're all caught easily, and pause to hover before their new owner. All but one, a special red one that perches itself on Jingles' shoulder. They take a different shape in a blink, changing from simple spheres to tiny kittens. A collective "aww" falls over the audience as they try to pet the creatures. The illusions drift up and just over head level, floating a moment. When these explode, they takes different colors to form a rainbow across the room.

Again, the one sent to Jingles proves to be an exception. It becomes a tiny red dragon that cutely burps flames at his mask. He laughs before crushing it in his hand. Arwen shrugs coyly when their gazes meet.

She takes the dragon theme and runs with it. A dozen illusions of the creatures, each about the size of a tankard and glowing a different color, fly from her hand. They circle the stage in a slow, gorgeous tornado. Arwen dances with them, pretending to catch and release the small lizards. None of them seem to mind their master playing with them.

Suddenly, the ballet turns into a blitz. They start to war with each other, belching tiny flames and clawing at their companions. The Jester makes a show of dodging the crossfire with several spins. They leave the stage to continue their dogfight over the crowd. This time, no one tries to get out of the way. The audience unflinchingly watches the aerial show above them, adding the appropriate "oohs" and "ahhs".

A new light appears on the stage, then flies across the room. One of the dragons disappears when a glowing arrow pierces its side. Arwen looks back to see Jingles arming his crossbow with another magical bolt.

"Don't pretend you didn't expect this," he says to her mind before shooting another dragon out of the sky.

"As long as you expect the same on your turn." The illusionist sics her pets on her competitor.

Jingles hits one more with his crossbow before they're on top of him. He swaps his weapon for his sickle as the creatures breathe their tiny fires on him. His costume glows crimson where each attack hits, an indication to all whether or not he would be alive.

In a mad spiral, his blade slashes through the illusions. The crowd applauds the fight with whistles and gusto. He carves his way through almost half of the dragons before his entire body is lit up. Deciding to go with it, he puts his hand over his heart in feigned pain. He shuffles to one side before collapsing, his sickle skittering across the floor. The dragons land on his body and let out tiny roars of victory. The cheering response shows who's side the crowd is really on.

Arwen opens the bottle she held earlier, and Rex erupts from his captivity. His miniature companions fly to his face and begin licking him. They make a chirping most would assume means friendliness in baby dragon.

"They dearly love their father, don't they?" the Jester asks her crowd. Through all of the claps and "awws," she turns to the pet. "Rex, why don't you show the little ones how it's done?"

The larger illusion spreads its wings and lets out a majestic roar. His pets circle him in an organized formation. Without any kind of running start, Rex leaps over the crowd into a controlled flight. Several hands try to touch him as he glides over their heads. He pays them no heed as he circles the room, expertly dodging the support beams and taller patrons. The little ones continue their acrobatics around their flying father, creating vague shapes as they dive around his wings and neck.

For Rex's final trick, he lets out a burst of fire from his nose. It hits the wall behind the stage, and quickly dies off. Rather, parts of it does. The remaining flames spell a single word, "Arwen."

The illusion lands beside its master and rubs its head on her. She laughs while petting the creature. "I love you too, sweetie," she says loudly to him and the audience.

Not to be ignored, the little ones pester her for attention. They form a line at her feet, chirping and hopping. Arwen takes a single finger and scratches each of their chins. "I didn't forget about you babies, don't worry."

Arwen takes her canteen and displays it to her pets. Each of them sit with rapt attention. "Say goodnight to these wonderful people. They've been so kind," she orders with a gentle laugh.

As the crowd cheers, the dragons turn to them. Rex bows first, as majestically as ever, and the babies follow suit. Apart from the one on the end, who can't quite figure out how to and just rolls over with a happy tail wag.

The Jester opens the bottle, and the pets turn to dust. The canteen sucks them in without any fuss. Arwen closes the lid before giving another bow in the darkened room, only her glowing costume showing light. A standing ovation comes up to greet her.

With a loud, only slightly manic laugh, she waves her hand across the room again. The windows come open, and early evening light lets everyone see again. She then uses a finger gun to light the torches she so rudely put out earlier.

"I thank you for being such a wonderful crowd," she announces, another laugh obscuring her words. "And that was only the first round. Wait until you see what else I have in store for you."

"Am I allowed to get back up yet?" Jingles asks, still laying on the ground. It's fairly impressive he's held the pose with how uncomfortable it looks.

"No, you died: you must stay there until the undertaker arrives," Arwen says before offering a hand to help him.

Her partner happily accepts the gesture. Climbing to his feet, he gives her a quick hug. "Excellent recovery," he whispers in her ear.

"Shooting my dragons? That's really the best you could come up with?" she replies with another hushed laugh.

They release each other with a courteous nod. "I didn't want to disrupt your warm up."

"And now, my lovely crowd," Arwen announces with a dramatic hand wave. "Please, show my partner the same kindness you have shown me. And let us hear it for the for the amazing and only slightly foolish Jingles!"

The male clown steps forward and bows. The already invigorated crowd cheers for the performer. He puts all of his equipment away, bringing out only his pristine lute.

"While my wonderful colleague, and I do mean wonderful in every sense of the word," he says, "likes to use magic, I have found there are simpler ways to make people smile. Humor, music, and stories can accomplish it just the same, without having to resort to pretty parlor tricks."

Jingles feels a cold breeze at his back, a friendly jab from his partner. He knows how little effort it would take from her to turn it into a shard of ice sticking out of his leg.

"So let us test that theory, shall we? With something as universally understood as romance. And to all of the men in a relationship here tonight, do not pretend you don't. You had to woo your wives somehow. Based off what I'm seeing from here... I doubt it was your good looks."

A roar of laughter proves the joke landed better as he feared. He remembers when he tried that a few towns over and ended up fleeing the locals with pitchforks.

Jingles lowers his lute before him. He cracks his neck with a tilt and gently chuckles under his breath. "Let's knock them dead, Jessie. Just not literally."

He focuses his magic, and another lute joins his picking on Jessie's strings. It's only a rhythm, a beat to keep the pace while he performs the melody. He keeps his tempo controlled, but the audience can feel his energy trying to pull it along. _Something like a strong wind is coming over me,_ _has got a hold of me..._ he sings. Walking across the stage, his head bobs with the beat. The bells on his hat add a bit of percussion to the song. _Thinking and doing things I shouldn't be, I really shouldn't be..._

The rhythm guitar seems to multiply as invisible drums fill the air. Jingles picks up his pace with the new ensemble. Without the player holding himself back, the song feels more alive, especially as he hops across the stage. _It's one more performance, to one more, "whatcha doin_ _g_ _right now?" to one more trip to my side of town, and you walk right in. It leads to one more "here we go again."_

He spins on a foot, facing his partner trying to observe the show. _One more drink leads to another,_ _y_ _ou slide up close to me..._ he sings as he merrily approaches Arwen. _Tear the_ _costumes_ _off each other,_ _y_ _our hands all over me._

 _I tell myself I'm not in love,_ _b_ _ut one more time is not enough._ Just as he reaches her, she laughs and gives him a slight push back on the shoulder. It doesn't deter his advance or music at all. _One last kiss and then_ _I'm_ _a goner. And I'm here wishing you could stay a little longer._

She gives him a dismissive wave as his ensemble finds a middle between the initial restraint and the chorus' rush. Jingles' strums fall back to the starting melody, belting out the catchy tune. The crowd lets out a small groan as Arwen walks away from her partner. He takes a few backwards steps towards the crowd before turning to face them.

"Come on, help me out here," he laughs loudly. "Guess I'm rusty at this."

His audience gives a whistling cheer of enthusiasm, the females seemingly leading the charge. He gives a nod back in thanks, still facing them as he continues into the next verse.

 _So calm and so cool, yeah, I try to be, like you don't bother me..._ The main melody continues from his invisible entourage while he adds improvised riffs wherever he feels like it. _The last time was the last time until we're all alone. Then we're locking up the doors, oh..._

As he starts making another approach, Arwen gives him the literal cold shoulder. With a clap of her hands, she produces an icy knife. She throws it at his feet, which he spins to dodge. But the blade explodes into a sheet of ice twice as wide as his shoulders. This he doesn't get out of the way of in time, nearly landing on his face as he stumbles forward.

He salvages it by letting his left leg slide back across the ice, landing in a perfect split. Several of the men in the audience groan, but the clown doesn't miss a beat. _It's one more performance, to one more, "whatcha doin_ _g_ _right now?" to one more trip to my side of town, and you walk right in. It leads to one more "here we go again."_

Jingles lets his magical companions continue the song while he stands up. His laughter is the only thing stopping him from groaning from his unplanned stretch. But he refuses to yield. Jessie's strums join in as he walks towards her again. The crowd claps for his dedication. _One more drink leads to another,_ _y_ _ou slide up close to me. Tear the_ _costumes_ _off each other,_ _y_ _our hands all over me._

She doesn't push him off this time. Instead, she lets him lean the forehead of his mask against her while he continues to sing. _I tell myself I'm not in love,_ _b_ _ut one more time is not enough._ _One last kiss and then_ _I'm_ _a goner. And I'm here wishing you could stay a little longer._

Then everything stops. Jessie's music, the magic entourage, Jingles' singing: all of it. The crowd takes a moment to notice the silence and stop their own sounds. They all watch curiously as the Jesters stare at each other.

"Stay a little longer," he says in the same rhythm as the song. He is somehow both whispering to Arwen and announcing to those watching. It sounds more like a plead than a statement. "Please, just stay a little longer."

The Jesters continue to lock eyes for a moment, his cool blue matching her dark green. There's an odd tension to the room. Not between them, but the crowd. Like they're intruding on something too intimate for a public stage.

"Hey, everyone..." Jingles gently announces. "I think she likes me too."

That's when the clowns break into laughter. They each take a step apart, ending the intimacy as the crowd joins in. It's not the strongest laughter he's ever gotten, but it's a solid reaction to their joke.

"Come on now, everyone. Find your partner and sing along," he shouts over the crowd. Then the music resumes like it did before, a mad rush of energy fitting for a Jester's chorus.

 _One more drink leads to another,_ _y_ _ou slide up close to me. Tear the_ _costumes_ _off each other,_ _y_ _our hands all over me._

As ordered, everyone in the room finds their love interest and adds their own voice to the song. Jingles and Arwen continue a lighter version of their on-stage romance, her voice adding a soft harmony to his. _I tell myself I'm not in love,_ _b_ _ut one more time is not enough._ _One last kiss and then_ _I'm_ _a goner. And I'm here wishing you could stay a little longer._

When the chorus ends, the clown keeps the energy alive. His magic maintains the background instruments while he steps into the role of front man. The earlier improvisations are nothing compared to what he and Jessie begin to create. It's only when he begins to focus on the lute that he finally steps away from Arwen.

He spends the next two minutes making the scattered music in his mind a reality. His pace never slows, and the song never suffers for its randomness. If anything, it gives it a certain life, a bit of originality. It doesn't hurt the man behind it all is putting more energy into it than his thin frame should be able to. Hopping, swaying, and dancing with his music, the crowd can't help but feed off him.

As Jingles begins a slow climb up the scale, building towards an obvious climax, he takes a few steps back. The crowd, still cheering enthusiastically, watches him. On the final chord, he makes a standing leap onto Arwen's ice puddle. He lands on his knees and slides forward as the cut off rings in the still air. Thankfully Sam has taken care of her stage, saving the clown from a cluster of splinters in his legs. He leans back in his victorious pose, raises Jessie over his head, and collapses backward. The crowd, predictably, goes wild.

"Were you going for romantic, or overly dramatic?" Arwen laughs at her partner as she approaches.

He barely hears her comment over the crowd. "Well, I was the one paying attention during Pennywise's lessons."

He surrenders Jessie to her, then takes the other hand to help himself up.

Arwen eyes the lute curiously, feeling the magic in it trying to lash out. Even if it gets past her magical defenses, she knows her fractured mind can take the hit as easily as Jingles' did. "You find the strangest things," she notes. "I've never seen an instrument try to bite me simply for touching it."

"Jessie is special. I will happily tell you about her tonight." He takes it back and drapes the strap over his shoulder.

"I expect nothing less. After we reacquaint ourselves, darling." The female Jester steps up to the crowd. "And that, my new friends, was only the first round. Please, keep in mind who you believe is winning as the night goes on. I need your help to prove to Jingles I really am better than him."

"And I need your help to prove how delusional she is," her partner immediately responds. It's not clear who the crowd is laughing at more.

Arwen drifts across the stage with practiced grace and digs into her pack for a prop. "A second opinion, if you would be so kind," she asks Jingles. "A trick with the bow, or the flute?"

"Flute," he says after a brief moment of thought.

Arwen laughs and pulls out her bow. She taps the end of it to his mask as she takes her place in front of the crowd.

* * *

Thanks to my own mind being weird and a deadline imposed by my D&D campaign, I ended up having a draft of this almost made before the last D&D doodle was even done. So I figured I should at least finish and share it before moving on to the next chapter of "Fallen."

Anyway, only two extra clarifications I can throw in here. First, this duel of the Jesters is pretty standard for any of these guys who find themselves in the same town. They usually end up putting on a cooperative show before it's all said and done, but competitions are almost always a forgone conclusion. Second clarification is Jingles and Arwen's relationship is slightly abnormal for Jesters. They're all casually intimate and instantly friendly with each other, rarely settling down with one in particular. It's not unheard of, but these two being committed to each other is definitely more the exception than the rule. (Which my DM is already using against poor Jingles, but that's besides the point.) ~MGA


	5. Intermission

**Intermission**

Jingles presses his lips to Arwen's pale collarbone, and follows it immediately with a gentle bite. The feeling of her racing pulse against his tongue makes him smile just as much as the salty taste of her sweat. Ensuring she's satisfied matters more than anything when they're a tangled mess of limbs and sheets. More than the rush of her cool flesh pressed against his, than the sensation of their tongues searching every inch of each other. It means he's given his lover a moment of romantic respite that she dearly deserves.

He pushes her wrists above her head and gently pins them to the pillow. She smiles as her breathing slows to a steady pace. Her lips find and kiss his neck tenderly. He closes his eyes, then nuzzles the side of her face. That feels pretty good too. He isn't entirely selfless.

"I believe we've earned that bath, darling," Jingles whispers.

"We earned it putting on our show," she chuckles into his neck. The vibration tickles. "This was to ensure you knew how I've missed you."

"Oh, I realized that on stage from those 'accidental' touches of yours."

"What can I say? It's hard to resist your wonderful behind when it's so achingly close." Her hand drifts downward and scratches at the base of his spine. Arwen always takes great care of her nails: they help her send shivers up her lover's spine.

He picks his head up and slowly kisses her lips. She reciprocates while adding a content sigh. Jingles feels her try to lift her pinned arms, so he lets go. They're soon draped around his chest in a loose, affectionate hug. It makes the kiss last a minute or five longer. Even if the room had caught fire in that time, neither of them would've cared to move.

But when it's over and they let an inch of warm air separate their faces, Arwen gives a jokingly disappointed groan. "But you are right about a bath. It sounds heavenly."

"As long as you're still agreeable to company," he says with a smile and a gentle finger poke to her nose. "I would hate to see your wonderful skin go a moment without proper affection."

Rather than speaking an answer, she kisses him again, lets her emerald eyes stare into his for a moment, and shoves him off the bed.

Jingles rolls with his momentum, effortlessly getting back onto his feet and walking towards the bath. The Jesters' shared room holds a tub large enough two, already full of water and surrounded by all varieties of soaps. It also has a small fire pit that connects to a vent, in case the water isn't warm enough. It was nearly scalding when Arwen led him into the room blindfolded, but now it's uncomfortably cool.

"The bath will have to wait. Our wrestling lasted longer than usual, it seems," he chuckles, producing a flame in his palm. There's a lighter with the shampoo, but this is more fun.

"Then we will have to find a way to distract ourselves, darling." He doesn't know she's behind him until her silk kimono brushes against his back. Then her lips are on his neck, and her arms are wrapped around him again. She's an inch too short to lay her chin on his shoulder, so she settles for whispering sweet nothings into the back of it. "Because you won't be getting anything more unless it's in that bath. It's been ages since we were intertwined in the tub."

"What, does the lake last summer not count?" he chuckles, holding her pale hands in his.

"That was to wash off the blood of highwaymen, and my soap wasn't nearly as nice as what Sam has."

"Fair… A proper catching up seems to be in order. The kind that involves words, not bodily fluids."

She giggles into his warm flesh again. Not that hers is cold, but her tiefling lover always runs a noticeable fever. "I can accept that. What kind of wine should we share?"

"Whatever costs the most," he says as he spins in her arms and kisses her cheek. "I'm sure Sam made more than enough off us tonight to survive the expense."

"As you wish." Her fingers crackle with electricity as she runs them down his bare chest. She gives him just enough of a jolt to make his skin tingle and his black hair stand on end. "I will love you forever if you retrieve my pack for me."

"You have higher standards than me, then. Because I already do."

She plants another short kiss on his lips. Gently, she whispers, "As do I. But it's fun watching you work for it from time to time."

Arwen finds a bottle that matches her eyes and lacks a label, but its coat of dust gives it the appearance of being old. She has a full glass in each hand as she sits back down on the bed. Jingles is beside her a moment later, trading her satchel for a drink.

"Would you like to pick the first topic?" she asks, sipping her wine. White, very sweet, and not particularly strong: they've certainly shared worse.

He gives a firm nod, then twists his face in thought. "Let's discuss… the most interesting souvenirs we've found this year."

Arwen giggles and points at the bandore sitting on her partner's pack. Even blindfolded and obviously being led towards sex, he carefully set it down before tackling her. "I assume that is your new lute. Did you kill its previous owner?"

"No, a cyclops did that for me. It was attacking a merchant's path and collecting the shiniest salvage into a giant pile. The thing nearly ripped my arm off, and it squished my aasimar companion with a rock, but I liquified its underused brain before it killed anyone. Jessie was leaned against a wall by herself, almost as if she was waiting for me."

"I can hardly imagine a more fitting owner: you were always a better musician than a magician." With a small smile and a batting of her eyes, the sting is taken from the insult instantly. "Did she come with the name?"

He shrugs with another sip. "Nothing was carved into her, and the cyclops wasn't terribly talkative before I killed it. But when I picked her up, the name came to me. She seems to like it."

"You play her beautifully. I felt magic when I held her: have you figured out what spells she can cast?"

"Flight and levitation are the most fun, by far," he chuckles. "But I've convinced her to let me talk with animals and ensnare others in thorny vines. There may be a few more buried in there she hasn't shown me yet."

Arwen sets her glass on the end table and brings Jessie back to the bed. When she sits next to Jingles, they notice how her crimson kimono matches his skin. It makes them both laugh.

She gives the instrument a testing strum. Its magic reaches toward her mind again and is easily stopped by her will. She almost glows as she plucks the strings, neither Jester sure if the magic is coming from her or the lute. Jingles watches with rapt attention regardless.

"She's hiding something from you," the half-elf finally says before laying the instrument on a pillow. "I'm not quite sure what. That's fun to be had in the morning, far enough from the bar that we don't have to worry about leveling it. Again."

"That was Belmont's fault, not mine," Jingles responds defensively.

"Just like that farm near the Twin Peaks?"

"That doesn't count either. You were encouraging me."

Arwen laughs, nodding in agreement. "But the awe in your eyes as the flames reached the cellar and all of its terrible moonshine… It was worth the week of fleeing through the forest."

He adjusts so he's sitting cross legged on the bed, staring at her with undivided attention. "So what is your trinket then?"

She clicks her nails together for a few moments. The only other sound, besides the slight crackling of the fire, is her humming a tune he enjoys hearing without recognizing.

"Ah, that's perfect." She digs into her pack and pulls out a small spider. It looks like a tiny Warforged, with bits of metal and wood intricately woven together for animation. Only this one isn't moving. "A gift from an artificer at the border of the Bloodwastes. He has a complicated gnome name, but I call him 'Sneaky.'"

Jingles holds it in his hand. It feels like holding a piece of art, one light as a feather and probably as dangerous as a python. He loves it already. "May I ask how he earned his title?"

She nods, then closes her eyes. "Look away from him, count to ten, and look again."

He does as he's ordered with a small chuckle. He counts in Deep Speech for his own amusement, then looks back at his palm. Sneaky isn't there anymore: now he's in the crook of his elbow, perfectly motionless with a foot held like his walking was interrupted.

"That is adorably terrifying," he chuckles, picking the thing up between his fingers. Even in the air, the extended leg holds perfectly still. "Is your little friend enchanted?"

"No, it's all mechanical. I've sensed him for magic and found nothing. The builder swears it's an old gnome trick her parents taught her. Some kind of sensor that knows when eyes are on him. Imagine the possibilities when your boyfriend is sleeping." Arwen has a mischievous grin as she takes Sneaky and places him back in his sealed pouch.

Jingles smirks back like a mirror. "Did you use your womanly charms to get Sneaky? I know we were apart for some time, maybe you got a little lonely…"

"Oh… you wish you could dream about that," she whispers in a flirtatious tone. "You're lucky I prefer my company to be taller and with horns perfect for holding him while we're under the sheets."

They both laughs for a moment before Arwen continues. "No, it was a bonus for a job. She needed the shell of a flail snail for some project, and I found a hunter who spotted one in a cave. You should have seen it: the entire cavern was covered in crystals, even the water seemed to glow a bright blue. I counted a dozen of them down there, all keeping their distance as they protected the eggs hatching in their nests. I even got to see a pair of them do their little mating dance, where they swing their flails and shoot their lovers with darts. It was beautiful to find a gem in a corner where they couldn't reach me and watch it all…

"I looked for an old one, obviously past mating age so I wouldn't feel bad for killing it. I baited it down a tunnel with small crystals and used enough lightning to ensure it didn't suffer. Of course, the noise made the others come investigate, so I had to run with a shell big enough to sleep in tied to my back. Venceli was so impressed, she let me spend the night while she built Sneaky."

"I missed an amazing afternoon then," Jingles smiles earnestly. He barely blinked during her story, hanging on to every word like it was gospel. "Did you tell her about the cavern?"

Arwen shakes her head. "Of course not. I said it was alone on the shores of a lake, eating shells. Those creatures don't need us killing them by the dozen for their shells. They're happy being left alone, and 'civilization' will be fine without knowing how close they are."

"Very true," he nods approvingly. "You came away with a wonderful trinket, a beautiful story, and the knowledge you protected a cave of giant snails. I would call that a perfect day."

"Almost. I didn't have you there to share it with me." She speaks softly, and with a hint of legitimate regret.

Jingles won't stand for that. "If I had been there, the story would've ended quite differently. Likely with the snails chasing me and my bagpipes while you took your time fetching the shell."

That's all it takes to bring his lover back to her usual, grinning self. "Have you found a single person who enjoys listening to those ridiculous things yet?"

He lifts a finger up and breathes in to respond.

"Who wasn't a member of the College?"

His finger stays up. He takes in another gasp.

"And was sober?"

He lets his hand fall down in defeat, wearing the face of a beaten puppy dog quite well.

She leans forward and kisses him on his cheek. He presses his forehead against hers for several quiet moments. Neither one let their eyes stare at anything but the other's. Her hand rests on his face, her thumb settling on the scarred portion around his damaged eye. He's grateful for her coolness: it's one of the few things he can feel through the burned flesh.

"I missed you this fall," Jingles says softly.

She nods without blinking or ending the contact. "Me too."

"More than usual. A caravan I rode with, we stopped in a forest clearing for repairs. I sat in a tree, playing and watching for monsters… I almost swore that it was the same one that we escorted that painter into."

"Now that was an adventure, wasn't it?" she giggles, finally closing her eyes to focus on the memory. "I remember twenty one gnolls, not counting the ones that chose to flee instead of dying."

He joins in the laughter. "All with that idiot crying that he was terrified to die."

"It was like he didn't think he would actually see gnolls while he 'sketched them in their natural habitat.'"

"And the world calls us mad. But the end of that day, how we laid under the tree while he painted us… I would have given anything to relive that day with you. It was almost overwhelming how I couldn't think beyond it that day. It was the worst I have ever missed you, darling."

Arwen slides across the bed and hugs him tight. At this angle, she can lay her head in his neck like she wants. Jingles does the same, burying his face in her pale skin and blonde hair.

"I had my own moment like that…" she almost whispers. "With Lancel, of all people."

He instinctively chuckles and lets her sit upright. "I think I can hear him being offended by someone not being satisfied with his presence."

Arwen giggles a little. "Probably. We found each other in Golden Hill this fall, and word of our shows reached a casino owner. His son was getting married, and he wanted the absolute best in entertainment for the reception. Of course Lancel only heard the compliment and accepted before he even knew what the pay was."

"Should I pretend to be surprised?"

"Don't bother. But it was a pleasant afternoon and we were rewarded properly. The reception was beautiful chaos even before the drinks were served. We gathered practice swords and the guests took turns dueling Lancel. He started blindfolding himself to make it fair, and he was still untouchable. I entertained the children by creating little fake chwingas for them to chase like fireflies." She begins laughing harder, her eyes watching her mental image of that day somewhere past the ceiling.

"So what made you miss me so badly?" Jingles asks quietly. He isn't sure if he should interrupt her daydream. She's beautiful with her head in the clouds and a smile on her face.

"The first dance as man and wife," Arwen answers without a change in her expression. But she does slowly stop giggling. "I made the illusion of snowfall while he led her across the platform. There was a band there to give them a proper song. It was a slow, elegant ballroom dance like something from a theatre. She watched him as if a moment apart would break her heart. If I've ever seen a marriage of love, it was them. And I… For a moment, I wondered what it would look like if that was us."

He reaches out and grips her hand. Her soft fingers weave between his effortlessly. "What did your mind create, then? Describe it to me."

"You would be in a suit fit for a king, with a blue shirt that brought out your eyes, while I would cling to your side in a spotless white dress. And then we would ride away to a life where we weren't apart more often than we were together…" Her eyes finally come down to his, and her smile fails to hide her worry. "Am I wrong to want that kind of normalcy, even for a moment?"

"There's nothing wrong with that, Arwen," he says softly. "Our lives aren't easy. Are we not allowed to even think of what it would be like to have a different one?"

She shakes her head slowly, her gaze settling on the bed sheets. "I suppose… Have you ever felt the same? Did the thought of settling down as a farmer or city dweller ever seem like more than a ludicrous idea?"

"Occasionally. It only lasts until I look in a mirror." He pulls her hand to the scarred side of his face. Her fingers immediately find the familiar grooves, the ridges left years ago in his dark red skin. "Whoever I used to be knew I was better off not remembering any of it, that I would be happier being someone who barely knew what normal was. This reminds me whenever I forget."

"I almost feel cruel for saying that you're lucky," she says in a hushed laugh. "It gives you more confidence in knowing you're right. These thoughts have been in my ear ever since the wedding, whispering and picking at me as bad as the Old Ones."

Jingles purses his lips in thought, wondering he if can create some magic words that will take this weight off her shoulders. Maybe a joke about becoming a fat housewife on a farm, or what the terrifying offspring of a half-elf and a tiefling would look like. Maybe even one about the Old Ones finally escaping: that usually works. But then, he comes up with something different entirely.

"What about just a bit of normalcy? Something that makes you and me at least somewhat comparable to the rest of this pitiful excuse for society?"

Her eyes come up to his again, silently asking for an explanation.

He smirks confidently, putting an arm around her shoulder. "We already have a decade together, don't we? I believe convention states that's long enough to make it permanent."

"We are not hosting a wedding here. Or at the College," she laughs merrily. If he has to guess, she's imagining what that would be like. Alcohol, chaotic music, and more fireworks than can ever be in the same place safely. Like a slightly more cheerful Jester funeral.

"I'm not a miracle worker. But becoming engaged doesn't require much effort."

A smile instantly appears on her face, one only slightly restrained by surprise. "You're serious, aren't you."

"Why not. I've no plans of finding anyone else, and I don't believe you do. I will be quite happy being your fiancé. Making you extra happy will just be a bonus."

"You are out of your mind, Jingles… but I would love that. More than I think I can say." She puts a tight hug around his chest, setting her head into his shoulder. "No, I don't want a ring or for you to get down on one knee. That will be too dramatic, even for you."

He shakes his head with a grin. "Of course not. But I'm sure I can find some kind of trinket that would work."

Arwen looks up to him and gives another mischievous smile. "I'll race you. First to find their engagement gift gets to be on bottom."

"Deal."

Jingles kicks Arwen's bag away as he dives towards his. She repays the favor with a gust of wind that propels him across the room. He rolls with it, and they're both in their packs at the same instant.

Carrion crawler tooth? No, too easy to lose. Mummified goblin hand? Not personal enough. There's the never-lighting candle… The pocket watch! He stands straight up, the trinket held in the air like a trophy.

Arwen looks unimpressed as she twirls something around her finger. "Looks like you'll be doing most of the work again."

He laughs and tosses the watch to her. "Consider us engaged, cheater."

"Where did you get this ugly thing?" she asks through a gentle smile after a moment of careful examination. It really is, though: brass, rusted, and covered in dents, its days of ticking are long past.

"A bandit clan's leader thought he could take my wagon. The timepiece is prettier than he was, if you can believe it. Defenestrating him made the rest flee: I killed a dozen birds with one stone."

"Something more sentimental than valuable. It's perfect." She gives the gift a kiss before walking to her fiancé and handing him his trinket. "For you. The tanned tentacle of a Mindflayer, on a convenient leather loop to tie to your belt."

Laughing as he rubs the thing between his fingers, he says, "You have to tell me where you got this."

"There was a group of monster hunters trying to kill the creature after it enthralled one of their own. They had it trapped in a cave, but none we brave enough to finish it off. I convinced them to part with a casket of ale, lit it aflame, and rolled it into the hole." She giggles sweetly as she points to the souvenir. "They were rather upset they didn't think of it themselves. There was enough left for me to take a small trophy."

Jingles laughs with her, slides his gift's loop around his wrist, and holds her close. "That's my girl."

"Your fiancé," she corrects sweetly.

"We haven't been engaged long enough to get used to the title. Give me a bit," he chuckles.

She smiles as she lays her head against him. "You're forgiven. If only because I love you, Jingles."

"I love you too, Arwen."

Before they can seal the moment with a proper kiss, there's a knock at the door. "Will one of you come pick up your dinner?" Sam asks loudly. "You can go back to weird Jester sex after you take this food off my hands."

Jingles tilts his head toward his lover and smiles. "I almost forgot we ordered that."

"Do you want to blind her, or do you want to collect our tray?"

"… I'll run interference. That's more fun."

Arwen chuckles as she slips under his grip and approaches the door. When she reaches the handle, he cracks his fingers and let his magic come alive. The room is instantly blacker than night, including the hallway beyond it.

He hears the door creak open, and Sam's breathing become audible. "You know I can close my eyes, right? This is overkill, even for you guys."

"There's no such thing, Sam. Thank you." The tray and silverware clatter a little as Arwen take them from the innkeeper. "And because we discussed it a moment ago… Do you still have that painting we gave you? The one of us in the forest clearing with a pretty gold frame?"

"Oh, I moved it to the other wall. I rearranged the shelves behind the bar, and it didn't fit anymore. The frame's been replaced, though: one of your initiates was learning to juggle hand axes. He broke the frame, a table, and lost two toes before the professor finally made him stop."

"Nix," Arwen and Jingles say in perfect unison. They know which teacher would let a student fail that many times before ending the lesson. Most of them would wait until the third toe was missing.

"Yep. His students practice in the yard now. Need me for anything else?"

"We should be fine," the female Jester answers. "We'll see you in the morning."

Sam closes the door with a semi-cordial, "good night," and walks toward her own room for the night.

Jingles lets the spell end, and light floods the room. His eye take a second to adjust from the pure black to the firelight. The thought reminds him to test the bathwater, and then to extinguish the fire. "It's perfect now. Just in time for it get cold while we eat dinner," he laughs.

"I'm sure the soup is salted enough to sit out without harm," Arwen says, moving the tray to an end table by the bed. "You still owe me that bath."

Jingles beckons her closer with a flirtatious finger. She smiles as she approached, even more so when he hugs and slowly kisses her again.

"What was that for?" she asks pleasantly.

"Just telling my fiancé I love her in a way slightly more creative than saying it," he grins.

She kisses him back. "I feel like you could be a little more creative if you put your mind to it."

"I already have, darling."

He had been careful to rotate them slowly so she didn't notice it as it happened. He catches her completely off guard when he pushes her into the bathwater, kimono and all. She yelps on the way in, and comes up ready for vengeance. The water in her hand instantly becomes a snowball that explodes in the tiefling's face. Even Sam, already a floor below the room, hears the ensuing laughter as he dives in with her. Thankfully, she doesn't hear the sounds that follow a few minutes later.

* * *

Sorry for the radio silence lately, everyone. Those of you who know me personally know my life has been... chaotic at best. Finishing some renovations on my house, got a new job as a software quality assurance technician (I break other people's software so the devs can patch it before it gets rolled out), and my wife is pregnant with our first child. So yeah, my schedule has been chaotic at best. Therefore, my time for writing became just as scattered. Not that it's not a wonderful break to have still, it's just the breaks usually comes when I just need to sleep.

Anyway, I'm still working regularly on the HaloxMetroid commission. And I've got two more Jingles stories to finish, one of which is already drafted and just needs some clean up in editing. Those will take priority before I dive back into Dishonored. Just trying to knock off my to-do list as much as I can before my sleep schedule gets even more backwards. Just wanted to give anyone who bothered to read this an update! Hope everyone's lives are treating theme fine! ~MGA


	6. A Tragedy In The Making

Following the safe delivery of Kiara to the city of Golden Hill, the closest thing to civilization left in the world, Jingles and his company of Long Walkers were hired for a very different kind of job. Golden Hill's king wanted them to chase down information on Speakers, people that were supposed avatars for the lost gods of their world. The party was well paid, but their first encounter with the Speaker of Destruction ended with an entire town being, quite frankly, destroyed. So racing her across the deserts towards Iron Scar wasn't something they weren't happy to do. Especially since this was the original home of Viola and Almaz, and they were NOT welcome anymore.

Iron Scar earned its name thanks to a canyon near there called "The Pit." It was actually a sort of portal to Hell, with demons literally pouring from it every few days to destroy and kill whatever they could nearby. Iron Scar had taken that beating for a century, and that toll was finally enough that they had hired mercenaries, a group called the Heroes Guild, to help them defend what was left. The small human army was happy to take their money, put in as little effort as they could in killing demons, and be outwardly hostile to the "damn half-breeds" that called Iron Scar home.

The party arrived, and the week quickly became full of killing more demons than the guild had in a month, rooting out corruption between Iron Scar's merchant leader and the guild's arrogant commander, Gerard, destroying most of a cult called the Silencers that was hiding in the mines, and eventually closing the Pit in a near-suicide mission. Aided by a half-elf ranger from the guild named Oisin, the party managed all of this without casualties. It left them with one final goal: kill Gerard and give the people of Iron Scar back their coin so they could evacuate before the Speaker of Destruction arrived. They had one night of rest in the home of Almaz's mentor before taking on the guild.

To Jingles, this was all almost background noise to the problems that weighed on him. He'd learned that Arwen had been labeled a rogue by the Jesters, with her colleagues under orders to capture or kill her. Jingles found her in Iron Scar, and she explained a creature had forced her to remember her life before the Jesters, and her mind had received this "gift" about as well as expected. She was a member of the Silencers now, trying to find a way to kill the gods that were supposedly gone and the ones the Jesters knew would inevitably end the world. Jingles did what he could to convince her to join him instead, but she couldn't give up if she could save them from the Old Ones. She apologized and admitted no small part of her still loved him, even if she wasn't sure who she was anymore. She promised if he could find answers about his own past, he would understand and find her again.

Her words still clung to his brain as they planned to kill Gerard. These quiet times, when he wasn't fighting or performing for others, were not restful to him. His mind stayed on Arwen and what it might be like to learn who had walked into the Rite, and come out as a chuckling madman who would only be known as Jingles.

 **A Tragedy in The Making**

Jingles always loved the sight of Arwen without her costume. He had taken it off her more times than he could count, explored every inch of her in rented rooms, the College's dorms, or thick forests like the one they stood in. Even now, with only her face peeking out from around the cult robes, a part of him was happy. It was a taste of their happy memories together.

"Don't make me do this," she pleaded softly, staring at him with a raised fist full of lightning. There were no tears in her eyes, no quivering lip to show weakness. He swore he heard her voice waver slightly, but he couldn't be sure it wasn't his imagination.

He decided he wasn't. That hesitation meant he had a chance. "You're not leaving me behind, not again," he said while ignoring the laughter in the back of his mind. It was louder than usual, trying to get him to acknowledge exactly how absurd their situation was.

"I can't let you follow me, Jingles… You shouldn't be anywhere near me."

"You've yet to tell me why."

"Don't pretend you didn't hear me." Her determination showed just as much in her expression as it did in the electricity at her fingertips. "The College was wrong. About everything! We can beat all of those worthless gods!"

"That doesn't change us. Let Dandelion worry over that, let the others decide how to use whatever you found. But that has nothing to do with you and me." He was standing his ground, keeping his stance stoic, like a brain-dead hero from a ridiculous storybook.

"What if they bury it? They could hide it to match those stupid books in their damned library." She shook her head, her eyes never leaving her partner's. "I will not let them destroy the truth like they did our memories. Not if it means we can be free."

Ignoring the increased glow of her lightning, he stepped forward. "Then tell all of the Jesters, make it impossible to hide. Or act on it yourself. Nothing is stopping us for doing that together."

"They all hate me for hurting Scribbles! At best, anything I say will be the ravings of someone too crazy to be a Jester. Or… or they'll kill me before I can say a word. And anybody with me will suffer the same." Her voice was showing a bit of weakness now. The waver was clear as day now.

"Let them hate me," he said, pointing at his chest. "If I have to choose between you and the College, I will pick you. I will always pick you, Arwen."

"Don't call me that!" she screamed. The magic in her hand slammed into a tree behind him, flying just past his head and vaporizing the trunk in a flash. "It doesn't fit anymore! Nothing fits! The Jesters made me Arwen! I can't be her with my memories! And I can't be who I was with the dreams and the gods screaming in my brain! Every bridge is already burned! I don't belong anywhere!"

Jingles dropped his pack to the ground, letting his weapons and instrument fall with it. All he had was open arms as he walked towards her. "Not all of them. You're forgetting the one right in front of you. The one who chased you across a desert twice, who fought through an entire cult just to find out where you went."

Tears began to leave thin streams down her face, her bloodshot eyes watching her partner. The red contrasted the bright green almost hilariously. "No," she said softly. "You chased and killed for Arwen. You followed a ghost. She's only a memory now, no matter how much you wish she wasn't."

"In the caves, you told me that you loved me. No one did that but Arwen." He slowed his footsteps without stopping them, his hand reached out towards her. The closer he got, the gentler he let his voice become. "You are still Arwen. You remember who you were before, that's all. Memories can't hurt us, even what created them did. They're nothing that we can't work through."

"This is more than having a new story to talk about in the sheets. What I learned about me, about both of us… I can't keep that secret. And I know you can't live with the truth." Her bitter laugh through the words hurt him. It was one thing to find amusement in a mortal's desperate clinging to normalcy. It was another to for the woman he loved to laugh at how weak she thought he was.

He bit back his own crazed laughter until he was an arm's length from her. "You don't get to decide that without finding out for ourselves," he whispered. "We have to try. We'll risk heartbreak, but maybe we'll find nothing changed. Maybe we'll be just as happy as before… And this whole mess was just a stupid spat between lovers."

She wiped her face on her dark blue robes. Her eyes still stayed focused on him, but her strength seemed gone. Was it the thinnest sliver of hope in them now, or resignation? "How likely do you think that actually is?" she said, pessimism almost dripping from her tone.

He shrugged and held a hand out further. "I think it doesn't matter. We've been through enough, both of us, to deserve a chance at a happy ending. And I'm willing to try."

"… you always were a stupid romantic," she laughed. Her shoulder pushed his arm away as she hugged him around his chest. She buried her face in his neck, her warm flesh and tears reaching him through the costume.

"One of us has to be." His mad laughter was trying to push through again. It was funny, wasn't it, this whole ridiculous situation? Like a bad joke: two amnesiacs walk into a college, fall in love, and nearly kill each other because of some buried memories.

He shoved it back, forcing himself to focus on her. On the woman he needed more than the madness that was little more than a coping mechanism. It was hard, but he managed. Singing softly helped him more than he expected.

 _Gods know I've failed you time and again. But you and me, we're alright… So don't say your goodbyes, you know it's better this way. We won't break, we won't die: it's just a moment of change… All we are, all we are is everything that's right. All we need, all we need, are just you and I…_

"It's a shame this isn't how the story ends," Arwen said softly, her face still in Jingles' neck. "It would be perfect, wouldn't it?"

"It just means we have more time to make a better finale." Jingles shook his head slightly. A lightheadedness was creeping up on him, almost like a spreading migraine.

"No, we don't. What we have is a tragedy in the making. The writing is already on the walls, no matter how hard you try to ignore it."

The sensation covered his entire head all at once, culminating in a dull throbbing behind his eyes. But the laughter was the worst of it. The part of his mind determined to find a demented humor was stronger than ever. He almost couldn't hear the outside world over the distorted laughter he was mostly sure was only in his head.

But he focused, and he could hear Arwen still rambling on. Her voice was deepening and distorting with every syllable. The mental image of her flute with growing cracks briefly appeared in his mind. "There's no such thing as a happy ending. There's only the tragedies that we expect, and the ones that blindside us. Jesters are doomed to the former, except for the ones so lost to madness they can't see the world for what it is."

His vision started to blur as pressure built in his forehead. It wasn't pain: every sense of his was becoming overwhelmed. Like he was seeing too many colors, feeling too many hands on his skin.

"Are you that mad, Jingles? Or are you choosing to be blind? Are you trying to be like the stupid mortals, ignoring the signs that you're too weak and too late? Do you think if you keep your ears and eyes covered, you can do the impossible? Do you even realize that's what you're doing? Or is your ignorant hope keeping you from seeing the truth about Arwen?"

The music started everywhere at once. He leapt back from Arwen and covered his ears, trying to block it out. Every note he'd ever heard, those in tune and those not, on every instrument he'd ever imagined, were playing all around him. The thousands of chords weren't just crashing into him, they were drowning him. He bit his tongue to focus on pain instead of the sound. As the blood spilled, it felt like the music was erupting from the cooper fluid. Somehow his taste was becoming his hearing as well.

"You know you've lost, you fool," Arwen's booming voice continued, somehow at the very bottom of the range he could hear. "It doesn't matter how much you try to ignore it. The knowledge is there, wiggling its way to the front of your thoughts until it's all you can think of. Not even that laughter can blind your mind to the truth.

"You were gone when she needed you. When the dam burst and everything she tried to forget rushed into her mind, you don't even know where you were. Probably some bar that'll burn down before the year is over, playing for people who will starve by the fifth winter. Or maybe in bed with another colleague, letting the woman you love suffer as wave after wave of her past broke her in ways you can't imagine. You didn't save her when she needed you, and now it's too late. All you can do is watch her spiral down and cry for you like a frightened child."

Jingles found her leg pushed her back. She grabbed his arm, jerking him to his feet. Her breath reeked of the men he'd killed to find her. Warm tendrils slithered from her arms and through his mask, shattering the wood before burning a fresh scar over the damaged part of his face. He refused to open his eyes, still gritting his teeth into his bleeding tongue. The music grew so loud even the laughter in his mind couldn't be heard.

"It's your fault she's broken. Soon it will be your fault she's dead."

Another pair of hands grabbed his shoulders, then two more hooked into his belt. Aiming with nothing but blind faith, his hands erupted with Hellfire. Shrieking answered the flames, the voices of Arwen, whatever she had become, and at least two others that itched at his mind with familiarity. He spun on his heels and sprinted backwards.

Opening his eyes was a mistake. Whatever the tendrils were made of, he saw they were everywhere. No more than a dozen feet on either side, walls of them were enclosing. Many of them were converging, melding together to form some kind of humanoid. They made no noise, nothing he could hear over the unending music that rattled his organs and mind. His mind recognized their inky faces from somewhere distant, but more importantly, he could feel their energy. They wanted him. They wanted to rip every part of him from his bones and spirit. They wanted to feast on his pain.

He roared like only something with demon blood could. Raw emotion drove his voice to a volume that made his throat bleed. It was barely a whisper over the raging symphony of lutes, horns, drums, and whatever other instruments hid behind the waves of moving ink. He reached his pack and found it undisturbed, inches from the approaching horrors. His sickle sung a cold tune in his left hand, and the blightstone sword burned his right. A part of his mind screamed that the blade should be lost in the Pit, not with him. He screamed at himself to ignore that fact.

The walls created a small army before him. The path he had just run down was full of dark, swirling creatures with bodies that defied description. But their faces were painfully clear. There was a quintet of distinct heads being shared among the creatures: the woman with the scar under on her lip, one with piercing blue eyes like his, an old elf man, and a pair of women who could pass for twins if not for the differing shade of brown hair. The creatures were all wearing one of these five faces, each contorted into an expression of feral hunger or terror. He wasn't sure which scared him more.

He shoved a hand towards the mass and felt the magic rush through his body. A dozen of them exploded, parts of their inky bodies flying over the crowd. He felt the reverberation of the spell hit his chest, but he didn't hear the sonic boom that should've followed it. It was buried beneath the still-growing music.

As the wave began charging, he screamed again and leveled all of the magic he could into a single sound explosion. It vaporized the front of the horde, but others immediately took their place. His ears should've been ringing. The faces of the ones he had already killed should've been gone. Should have.

His mad swings lacked anything resembling technique, his attention too fixated on pushing his magic into the blades. The red sword was a burning beacon as it carved through each body it touched. The corrupted blade attacked him as much as his targets, but his adrenaline kept the creeping poison from reaching beyond his shoulder. His sickle glowed purple with Jester magic each time it connected with a target. Both weapons disintegrated the things attacking their screaming master.

His resistance was painfully futile when he ran out of magic. As the glowing in his blades died off, so did their effect on the mob. He fought the panic as they descended on him, the fear of not knowing what was coming, of not having his mask to hide behind anymore. His fists, feet, and even teeth sunk into the creatures in a pointless struggle. Their touch burned like Arwen's tendrils, and the back of his mind compared the taste of their strange fluid to blood mixed with ink.

They didn't push him to the ground. They picked him up and carried him, his arms twisted back just shy of breaking. What strength he had was already gone. He was barely aware that he was laughing now, even less so of the tears that streaked across his face and blood that ran down his throat. It was all noise compared to the roaring cacophony, a stimulus lost among the sensation of thousands of tentacles slithering, almost absorbing his body.

He hit the ground in front of Arwen, the creatures still holding him. He closed his eyes again. Whatever came next, he knew watching it would only make it worse.

"You won't get off that easily," her voice boomed clearly. Somehow it was louder than the music, but it did nothing to drown out the notes.

He felt her hands on either side of his face. Lightning crackled from them, making his eyes snap open. He tried to blink, but even that was impossible. And the tears still welling in them did nothing to distort what he saw.

Arwen looked like herself again. She was in her proper costume, even wearing her mask with the dragon silhouette. The sight should have settled him instead of making him shudder.

"I wonder which would hurt you worse," it said, its hand stroking his face. Its touch was gently cool, especially compared to the burning he still felt from the last touch. It was impossible to not feel the fingers lingering near his scarred eye. "To see her die, or to become as broken as her… Let's find out."

As it twirled his blightstone blade, he could almost feel its grin through the mask. It watched him with her green eyes as it pressed the edge to her throat and slit her from ear to ear. The costume's mask and hood disappeared, revealing the half-elf underneath. It held the bitter smile as blood flowed down her neck. The blade's poison raced through her veins, turning them black. In seconds, lines like a tainted tree's roots ran beneath all of the skin of her face. It still had Arwen's beautiful, pleading eyes when they went pale.

He wasn't sure if he was screaming or laughing when they piled onto him. Each burning touch brought another brief flash. The faces they had stolen, younger with hunting bows in their hands. An alley with a cot that reeked of piss. A boot of a guard coming towards his face. The sound of a deer escaping into the forest. A burning on his eye stronger than anything he could've imagined.

Every inch of his body was covered in them, each fighting to put their memory in forefront of his mind. He knew he was screaming now. It was pain. It was panic. It was hopelessness. It was fear. And then, it was nothing but the music.

Jingles sat up. Fire waited at the ends of his fingertips as he aimed at the shapes in front of him. He waited until his eyes adjusted to the dark, wanting to be sure he caught the creatures with every ounce of flame. A moment later, he was glad. This wasn't the forest: it was the inventor's living room, full of sleeping forms, unlabeled bottles, and laboratory equipment he didn't care to learn about. The music was gone. Only soft snoring from the others, and something bubbling upstairs.

As his senses came back, he tasted copper and salt. He lifted his mask and ran a finger across his mouth. It found holes from his fangs torn into his bottom lip. The warm blood on his finger had mixed with the sweat, making it sting. Quietly, he was glad for the pain. It was real, something to remind him he was awake.

He couldn't bring himself to put his mask back on yet. Some voice in his head was yelling he would suffocate if he did. He settled for rubbing his hands across his face. His whole body was shaking, both too hot and too cold. Trying to breathe slowly, all the shuddering gasps did was prove how bad the nightmare had been. He wasn't even lucky enough to forget what it was this time.

Something rubbed against his leg. He looked over to see the wolf at his feet, watching him intently. Wyvern was plenty smart enough to know that he should check on the Jester.

"There's not much you can do about it, friend," Jingles whispered, scratching him behind his ear. "Not unless you're hiding the secret to time travel in that head of yours."

The wolf almost seemed to shake its head.

Jingles tried to laugh. He couldn't, so he tried a joke. "It could've been worse. Burning down a house isn't half as fun if you're still in it." He made another failed attempt at a chuckle.

Wyvern set his head in his lap and continued to stare at him. There was something comforting in the warm presence. Not much, but something.

The room still felt too closed in. It was too tight, like a bear trap. He needed to get out.

"Don't tell the others," he said as he stood up from the couch. "They're afraid of me as it is. Figuring out I'm part demon with dead gods in his dreams won't help."

The dark humor would usually be enough to get some kind of laugh at out him. This time, he silently collected his bag and walked outside.

Oisin knew it was Wyvern nudging his head before he fully woke up. Rolling over to face the wolf, he looked around for the reason he'd been interrupted. Everything seemed in place, and there were no demons, guards, or Heroes Guild to deal with.

"What, did you find somethin'?" he asked the wolf. His back protested as he stood from the sleeping bag. He missed his bed, where he didn't have to sleep on hardwood floors… and he was close enough to Penance he didn't worry as much.

Wyvern padded across the room and scratched at the empty couch.

It took the half-elf a moment to realize what was missing. He was surprised he hadn't noticed Jester was missing sooner. The crazy bastard stood out, even in this place.

Not sure what to expect, he collected his bow, quiver, and flask from beside his bed. He would probably need all three if the clown had been unattended long. "You see where he went?"

The wolf was already at the front door, waiting for his partner.

Oisin briefly debated if he should wake the others. Jingles could handle himself, but there was no shortage of things lined up to kill them. He decided he would take his chances. If the worst came to pass, he could probably sneak away and get help.

Jingles wasn't far past the front door, maybe fifty yards out, sitting at the top of a small hill. Oisin noticed the thin cloud drifting in front of him, but no fire. The bright red costume didn't stand out much under the new moon, thankfully. The Heroes Guild likely wouldn't spot them from here.

Wyvern was ahead as he approached the clown, both effortlessly silent. It wasn't until they got close that Jingles noticed them. He quickly scrambled for something white on the ground. It made Oisin more worried than curious when he saw it was his mask. Jesters slept in their outfits: the last time he saw one take their mask off, a doctor was stitching her face back together.

Jingles nodded to the half-elf as he sat next to him. Wyvern circled them almost like a shark, looking out rather than in. The wolf didn't seem bothered by the smoke coming from the Jester's pipe. It looked hand carved, the kind that curved down rather than sticking straight out. Oisin didn't recognize the smell of whatever was in it.

"You ain't trying to get caught now, are you?" Oisin laughed softly, looking over the same desert as his companion. The side they were facing was barren for miles. It wasn't like the view to the south, obscured by Heroes Guild tents and what was left of the Pit. Only peaceful sand was on this side.

Jingles shook his head. "Not that I would mind killing a few of the pricks. It would be a nice distraction."

"You'll get the chance soon. There won't be any shortage of bastards trying to stop us when we go after Captain Shitehead." The half-elf smiled at that thought. He was really looking forward to putting an arrow or three through Gerard. It was the least he deserved.

"That's fun to be held tomorrow." When the clown blew another breath of smoke, it drifted out from the mask's edges evenly. He then waved his fingers, and what was a formless cloud quickly shifted into small skull over a crossed sickle and lute. "A decapitation or three, Viola will beat one to death with his friend, I'll probably make some heads explode… It'll be a grand time. Tomorrow."

Oisin was now more worried than ever. The joke was normal for a Jester, but the silence following it wasn't. He remembered how loud the College was growing up, how the clowns were only silent when they slept. They were always humming a tune, singing to themselves, or laughing with the jokes in their minds. But not Jingles. Right now, he was only breathing.

"Tonight's a lil' more pressing then, huh?" Oisin asked as casually as he could.

Jingles nodded, taking another breath in of his pipe. The ranger didn't see any of his face when he did so. The Jesters all seemed to have an instinct for eating and drinking around their mask. "Only slightly. But I'm working on that now."

"Somethin' special in that pipe of yours?"

"An herb that grows along lakes south of here. Payment for serenading a medicine man and his patients for a week." He dug out another pinch of red leaves and added them to his pipe. "Legend has it burning them also burns off nightmares that follow you… They're good when dreams are what's keeping you from sleeping."

Wyvern finally sat down next to Oisin, still watching the camp behind them. He scratched the wolf's neck absently. "One of those nights, then. I'm… more familiar with them than I should be."

That got a laugh out of Jingles. It was too macabre to make the ranger feel better though. "Oh… You've no idea, friend."

"Then why not give me one?" Oisin asked, expecting something non-committal in return. "Ain't like I got anyone to tell but Wyvern."

What he got instead was a long sigh. More smoke drifted around them as Jingles puffed his pipe. Then he said, "The Jesters… we're all afraid of the same things. The same entities, let's call them. After these entities are done shattering your mind and burying your memories, they go after your dreams."

Oisin perked up but didn't say anything. He figured the best he could do was be supportive. So he dug out the old pipe and tobacco in his hip pocket. It had been ages since they'd seen use, but he always kept them in case the urge struck.

"They doesn't care about us. We're barely a speck of dust in their peripherals. But the simple fact they exist, and the fact we've seen them, it gives them power over us. So they wander into our dreams, reminding us that there's always something we're afraid of. Sometimes, they find a hook to dig in with. Completely on accident, just collateral damage of being in there… But when they do, I'd prefer to be tied to horses and pulled in eight different directions."

"They found Arwen, didn't they?" Oisin asked, his eyes glued to Jingles.

He nodded, taking another slow breath from his pipe. "They went after the worst thoughts. I can laugh them away in the day. They're either pointless worrying about the inevitable or something I'll prevent. Just laugh at the uselessness of worrying and push on ahead like I should… That's harder to do in dreams. Especially when those things… when they bury you under your fears, when they make them so loud you could carve your ears off and still hear them."

Oisin chewed the end of his pipe, letting the smoke escape through his nose. It explained a lot about the Jesters. He knew whatever the Rite was, it removed their memories and made the world seem '"comically pointless" as Papa Noel would say. But it almost made sense. Some ran from what scared them, some fought it tooth and nail, others just laughed like finding it funny would somehow make it weaker. The Jesters were this idea taken to the extreme. Something made them afraid all the time. They couldn't escape or defeat it. All that was left was humor, right?

He always felt a slight pity for the manic little clowns. They were outcasts that towns didn't mind using as long as they didn't stay long. Or they were dangerous freaks that needed to be destroyed, according to his father. They were strange, but they were good people underneath a… colorful exterior. They didn't deserve to be treated like that. Especially if they were strange because they were always shitting-themselves afraid of something. Because something had damaged them.

He put his hand on Jingles' shoulder and gripped it tightly. It still amazed him how thin he was under the tinkling costume. "Well… Look on the positive side. You only have to sleep for a few hours a day, right?"

"Easy for you to say, knife ears," the Jester chuckled quietly. He produced a small flame in his hand, too hot to be another illusion. "Does it look like I'm that lucky?"

Oisin shrugged. "No, instead you're a walking lighter. But you're still awake more hours than you're asleep, ain't you?"

"On the days I'm not being stabbed, usually."

"So what you're saying is you're too chicken shite to take that for a few hours?"

Jingles turned and gave him an odd look through the mask. His bright blue eyes had a slight tinge of orange to them. "You're trying to be brave, aren't you?"

"Just pointing out that you ain't the only one in the shite." Oisin took a long breath through his pipe, choosing his next words carefully. "I've spent months dealing with these bastards and watching them mistreat Penance. There's been a chance every day one of 'em'd decide neither of us should be here and let the desert deal wit' us. That's real, that's something that can hurt us. And you're complaining about some dreams? That sounds like someone trying to find a reason to pity themselves. That shite is for normal people, not a Jester."

It was almost like someone flipped a switch on the clown. The orange immediately left his eyes, and he started laughing again. Not that morbid or sarcastic laugh, but his honest, manic chuckle. "You're lucky I can admit you're right. You know that?"

"Just 'membering a thing or two you Jesters taught me," the ranger smiled. He knew the battle was already won.

"Now if we can just teach you to carry a damn tune," Jingles smirked. "You've got a way to go before you sound as good as my bagpipes."

Oisin laughed. "Gods, don't use fookin' things now. The Guild might come just to shut 'em up."

"I ain't afraid of those fookin' bastards. Viola ain't even killed my girls yet," the clown said in a hilariously bad impersonation of Oisin's accent.

The half-elf only shook his head and scratched Wyvern. He seemed to smile too, not just at the petting.

The Jester dumped out the last of his burning herb and put his pipe away. "Let them come," he said softly, his smile heard without being seen. "Let the Heroes Guild, the Ashfallen, the Silencers, and anybody else stupid enough to stand in my way form a line. It'll make cutting them all down that much easier... It'll take more than nightmares, monsters, and idiots to stop me from saving Arwen."

"What do you think you'll do when you find her?" the ranger asked.

"I'll try not to worry about that until I get there. Things seem to go better when I don't plan for them anyway," he chuckled, pulling his lute from his back. "Can you still keep a beat?"

"I did grow up around musicians." Oisin started clapping a mild tempo on his lap.

"No, no. Smack your thigh like you know what you're doing, not like you're dreaming about Penance's rear," Jingles laughed. "And pick up the tempo a little."

Oisin did as he was told, feeling only slightly insulted.

"Much better. Now, you'll catch on quick if you're paying attention. Join in if you can handle it."

Through his partner's laughter, Jingles began singing his favorite tavern song.

 _There once was a bog._ _A rare bog._ _It was a great bog, and a rattlin' bog… 'Twas a bog down in the valley, oh._

* * *

Sorry for the radio silence, friends. It's been eventful over here. The biggest change has been my son was born towards the middle of March, making him almost four months old now. Is he adorable and do I love him? Yes. Has he royally wrecked anything resembling a normal schedule with my life? Hell yes. And on top of that, as my contract as work has been coming to a close, deadlines have rushed my entire team. So I've basically had the choice of writing at home with a tiny human yelling at me, or trying to do it in ten minute breaks at work… I've gotten things somewhat sorted out again, finally. Enough that I can create time more than once in a blue moon to write/enjoy myself. At least at about half the pace I was doing before. Maybe.

But that's neither here nor there. Here's the latest thing I've gotten written. I had originally planned on finishing an adaptation of an actual session before posting this, just to give a little more context and let everyone get a feel for what the party dynamic is like. This got finished before I even had a draft finished for that. So this is going up now, and we'll see if inspiration gets me going enough to finish that adaptation sometime this century. That's why I've gotten into the habit of including the little "Story So Far" snippet anyway. I hope everyone enjoyed a glimpse into the inner workings of my murder clown's mind.

Again, the usual disclaimers.

Oisin and Wyvern belong to Reckoner-Lynx over on DeviantArt.

Dungeons and Dragons belong to Wizards of the Coast

The Jesters inspiration comes from Darkest Dungeon made by Red Hook Games.

Jingles and Arwen are mine, as well as the story.


	7. Instruments of Cyanide

Just because Jingles needed answers didn't mean he wanted them… or that getting them would be easy.

Following the revelations in Iron Scar about what was happening with Arwen, Jingles took the group to the mystery-shrouded College of the Jester, hoping to at least get them to call off the kill order on his fiancé. And to see if there was a way he could find out who he was before he donned his mask. The former was out of the question after it was revealed that Arwen had helped her cult sneak into the College for reasons unknown, but he was given a path to the latter. Much like the Speaker of Destruction was exceptionally good at her job, the Speaker of Knowledge could give Jingles back all he had forgotten. If he could be reached in a small village even further north that was currently under siege by an army of undead.

The party managed to eliminate most of the undead before their leader, the ghost of a former Jester gone mad from his own returned memories, escaped and vowed vengeance. The Speaker of Knowledge repaid each member the only way he could: by answering any question they could dream of. Jingles used his to regain the memories buried in his brain, learning that he was formerly Ralrai, the unwanted child of an abusive half-elf without a home for over a decade before he found the Jesters. As he slowly remembered being half blinded by his abusive father, the years of homelessness as he ran away, the way his sisters either pitied or hated him, his mind grew even more fractured… And the dreams of the Old Ones no longer waited until he slept to haunt him.

Jingles grit his sharpened teeth, barely containing his urge to pace. This was more than his usual manic energy fueling him. This was anticipation, fear, excitement, adrenaline all coursing through his veins. It made his heart beat almost double time to the tune whispering into his mind. He had given up on drowning it out after deafening himself with Shatter. The faintest undertones still were there when he could hear nothing but ringing. He didn't know if performing it would make the song go away, but he was a bouncing wreck as it was. It was worth trying.

He could hear Dandelion asking the others to shut up on the other side of the curtain. There were several voices that resisted with jeering jokes, some firecrackers tossed just to prove a point. But the chaos settled quickly. Dandelion's suggestion that all come see the show hooked them out of pure curiosity. The Dean didn't recommend lightly: she ordered for emergencies or stayed hands off. A suggestion meant this was something that caught her attention. And anything that could impress a spawn of the stars was not to be missed. With no ceremony beyond saying she expected a grand performance, she stepped aside and joined the crowd as it whistled and cheered for its comrades.

Geist was sitting at the piano, almost hidden behind the choir and a dozen other Jesters wielding cellos, drums, violins. Though silently bouncing with his own nervousness, he cracked his fingers readily. Jingles nodded back and scanned the others. The choir waved their hymn books happily, the curtain workers flew figure eights above them, the mages produced small sparks between their fingers. They were chomping at the bit to get this show on the road.

The three soloists showed they were ready as well. Bell's grinning mask stared at Jingles, her lilac eyes glowing with excitement. Little Zann at her side gave a standing backflip as his confirmation he was ready to go. Only Mr. B stood off to the side where he would be hidden even when the curtain came up. It was no easy task hiding the towering dragonborn, but they managed it.

Jingles took a slow breath, clenching Jessie tight in his grip. It didn't stop the music he heard or the trembling of his hands. He breathed again, forced himself to ignore it, and whistled a single sharp note.

The crowd outside immediately ceased its murmuring. Those in charge of lighting flooded the room with darkness, almost too black for even those of infernal blood to see in. Jingles looked back and locked eyes with Geist. Pulling the tempo from the tune still whispering to him, he patted it against his chest. It only took a few beats for the Jester on the piano to match it. The strings immediately joined him in haunting chords that complimented the piano's slow melody perfectly. And better yet, it matched the one that haunted Jingles.

The Jesters flying above silently pulled the curtain away, almost imperceptible in the darkness. Bell smiled at Jingles and crossed the stage to the front. Geist began repeating the melody, now joined by a single set of drums that gave a syncopated rhythm to build upon. A single spotlight cut through the darkness, Bell's thin form now sharply accented by the shadows behind her.

 _Trapped within the silence inside, watching as the days go by outside…_

Her soprano tone was just loud enough to be clear without losing its haunting effect. She swayed in a vague dance reminiscent of a siren's beckoning. Somehow both alluring and terrifying, Bell showed why she was one of the few who could feasibly usurp Pennywise as Queen of Performance.

 _All this replacing, discarding my face in the hollow tune… The fall of the idol will tear us limb from limb, to where wandering is a sin, to where nightmares can begin…_

Anyone listening could feel the building, the movement of the song without being able to point to why. The strings and drums were slowly joining, perfectly matching their leaders so it sounded like a single instrument approaching. Jingles found himself barely conducting them from the shadows. They were getting there…

Bell's growing strength made everyone feel the reason her beautiful singing was both wonderous and unsettling.

 _This life did not choose us, it chose to consume us…_

Jingles channeled the magic of his nightmares into his fingers. Jessie vibrated in his grip like she was electrified as he began the first riff. She held together and perfectly captured the tune from some unknown realm. He breathed a quick gasp of relief as he pushed her into the next one. Bell's voice grew over his instrument, now joined by the choir of Jesters behind them. The chanting ensemble crept forward so their costumed forms are hazy outlines at the barrier between darkness and light.

 _To ready for the day we march with dread beneath the sway._

The final words grew to a near shout before cutting off entirely, punctuated by the disappearance of the spotlight. The other instruments silenced themselves as Jingles pushed more magic into his playing. For maybe four heartbeats of everyone else, easily seven or eight of his, it was only the tiefling and his lute playing chords without an equivalent in this reality.

A squadron of drums provided the tempo as the song moved into the next verse. More lights came alive in time with the down beat. Zann and half of the choir were standing on the right third of the stage, in line with but away from Bell. The lights on them wasn't as sharp as her's, making the dwarf visible while transforming his supporters into a mass of dark red and white. He belted out his part in a confident tenor, the chanting of the choir with him a supporting role.

 _Dark nights are upon us. Black magic slays on the chorus… For the choir's in tune with an angel. Foresight of the broken will chain us… May her demeanor combine us within sorrow and blindness… We'll follow where the path of freedom can rejoin us now._

Jingles couldn't tell what was shaking worse: his own arms of Jessie. It felt like the magic he was toying with might shatter her wood to a thousand pieces. His waking dream showed that not happening to the lute, but his arms. An explosion of blood and muscle, shards of his bones that would imbed into his mask as the music overtook him. The closer the sounds of the stage came to what he heard in his mind, the worse the fear and trembling became. He clinched his teeth and focused on what he knew was real. The music was close. He was the one who is making it here. Not Them.

Barely containing a yell in his throat, he slammed harder into the riff, building with the rest of the ensemble. He could feel the chorus coming.

The choir's chanting, the drums pounding, Bell's shadowed dancing, the strings adding their haunting tune, Geist's piano melody that held it all together: they all were growing. The lights were now barely pulsing to make the audience unsure of what they're watching. Zann continued to sing strongly, bravely, blind to the true strength of his words.

 _We bow before a fake, for goodness sake. Where's the pride when we needed it to carry away… This decay has derailed, now she walks leaving trails of the damned!_

As the down beat crashed, the lights came alive. Jingles was finally illuminated, revealing his own small ensemble of a choir. The three leads formed a line across the stage that was the only clear thing visible. Everyone else was a hazy, shifting outline of movement just beyond the realm of perception. As if the shadows were squirming, living ink that hungered for those in front.

Jingles joined the other two in their howling of the chorus, still somehow keeping Jessie steady on her part.

 _Fall into the hands of sorrow drawn by the darkest day! Walk into the pit of silence, I am the one calling your name! I, in the name of violence, sentence you down to Hell!_

All three sang as one, a perfect chord of different tones that seemed inseparable. The lights pulsed with each down beat, reaching a brief brightness that made him feel safe before the shadows ebbed their way toward him.

 _Live or you will die! Just for my sake, fetch me the tools! So, I can create this instrument of cyanide!_

The lights and singers disappeared in a snap. The drummers and Jessie continued playing through the darkness, letting the audience know the inky shapes behind them had not claimed them yet. Jingles found himself spinning on his feet and angling towards where he knew Bell still danced. He forced himself to turn back to the crowd before the spotlight came back to him. Was it eagerness trying to push him to the climax already? Was the tune trying to ruin him? Was it afraid of him replicating it?

When the loose spotlight that was on Zann illuminated him, he was back in position and still playing perfectly. The stringed ensemble had grown significantly, enough that Geist would be drowned entirely if he wasn't putting his own magic into his instrument. Somehow, the piano seemed more stable than Jessie. The piano wasn't being forced to play something beyond what should be possible. That responsibility Jingles wouldn't let fall to anyone else. Just like he wouldn't let anyone sing his part.

 _Dark nights have devoured us… I walk this river of conscience for a time where we come to escape here. This eye views an open vengeance… I've laid in here for the longest time! The deadliest choir chimes for my awakening! This reckoning will see the light tonight!_

The hairs on his body stood on end. Excited goose bumps? Magic? Was what he was trying to create finally about to take him? Would the scar on his eye grow and cover his body, burning him from the inside until he was only ash? In a snap, he focused and turned towards Bell in her slowly growing light. He made it clear she was the one he was singing at. Or at least what she represented.

 _We bow before a fake, for goodness sake. Where's the pride when we needed it to carry away… This decay has derailed, now she walks leaving trails of the damned!_

This time, he knew where the tingling sensation came from. He could feel the magic of not just him and Jessie, not just the lights and the flying Jesters. He could feel the magic of all the performers behind him. The perfectly timed crash of nearly two dozen singers hitting the chorus and just as many instruments landing on the note perfectly, sending a literal shockwave across the room. The windows and doors of the room rattled. Every member of the audience shifted as they were pushed back. Even other musicians seemed off balance by their own power.

The only ones unaffected were the three leads. They continued to belt the chorus out with a strength and perfection almost unbelievable. For a moment, Jingles swore he saw the outline of something in the shadows above the audience, its tentacles reaching him, Zann, and Bell. Something holding them like marionettes. But it was only there for a blink before their words seemed to banish it.

 _Fall into the hands of sorrow drawn by the darkest day! Walk into the pit of silence, I am the one calling your name! I, in the name of violence, sentence you down to Hell! Live, or you will die! Just for my sake, fetch me the tools so I can create this instrument of cyanide!_

As the bridge arrived, Jingles began slowly approaching Bell. The dancing siren beckoned with a teasing hand. Zann and his choir, now under her spell, chanted and added to her haunting tune. Both Jingles and Jessie refused to back down to the opposing army singing at them.

 _It is time for you to leave, or so it may seem… but there's one more thing you have of mine, the core to my strings…_

Jingles barely noticed the fog of magic in the air, the building flames centered on him like a phoenix. He trusted the mages to handle the image: he focused on the words screaming in his brain to be sang, the chords that needed to be replicated perfectly.

 _Empower, desire to reignite the flames…_

Bell's mask almost instantly melted into a thick, pale liquid merging with her face. As it slowly regained solidity, it became clear it wasn't joining her. It was replacing her.

 _So, as you ascend to the Heavens now, I'll drag you back down to Hell. Listen to me!_

His shaking almost overtook him as his flames began to die. The only thing that kept him playing was his repeat of his line, his declaration. He had a waking dream of the fire around him scorching his costume, could almost smell the burning of his flesh.

 _Empower, desire to reignite the flames…_

Her eyes changed colors. Not to a demon red, not to an icy blue, not to a predator's yellow. They became a perfect emerald green… Arwen's.

 _Your friend is now mine! All mine!_

All he could do was get his scream in the same key as the chord playing around him.

The shadows swallowed them all. Not simple darkness, but writhing tentacles of ink and malevolence. Geist and his violins continued to play from some unreachable depth. They were still in the room but seemed somehow in a different reality. Like some crude imitations from the Sunken City had taken their place and were mocking the room with their playing.

Jingles saw the shape with both of his eyes, and the gasps of the audience proved it was not all in his mind. What was scattered, squirming tentacles coalesced into a single shape, a misty outline all the clowns shuddered at in nightmarish, vague remembrance. The head was nebulously kraken-like on a body that insulted reptiles of this plane, but even that was only a guess: the entire form was a swirling shadow that refused to be truly classified. It was a saving grace that the darkness saved anyone from seeing the details of the monstrous shape.

A low, booming voice sounded from the monstrosity, perfectly in time with the music of Jingles' mind and Geist's piano.

 _And when the ashes have spread apart… It is then… I'll take out his heart._

Jingles knew and silently screamed at himself that it was Mister B… but his mind couldn't shake the idea that something else was using the dragonborn to toy with them.

He realized a moment before the downbeat that he'd collapsed. Jessie still buzzed like a hornet in his arms even without his magic adding to hers. There was a heartbeat where he worried he wouldn't make it before the tune demanded his presence, but he scrambled up in time. The darkness clouding his vision became blood red as he stood, summoned every flicker of energy in him, and pushed it all into Jessie's next chord.

The lights came alive, finally revealing all of the performers on stage. The choir and three leads were still in their assigned spots, but the others were above them. They were floating, rotating in a loose formation and playing their hearts out as the final chorus began. The wispiest trail of darkness and ink connected them even as they danced around each other.

 _Fall into the hands of sorrow drawn by the darkest day! Walk into the pit of silence, I am the one calling your name!_

Jingles and Jessie began turning back towards Arwen again, as did Zann. When she turned to face the him, it was clear she was no longer a friend. And the tenor's allegiance laid with her.

 _I, in the name of violence, sentence you down to Hell! Live, or you will die! Just for my sake, fetch me the tools so I can create this instrument of cyanide!_

Flames built again around Jingles while the final verse approached. These had to be real: he could hear the hiss of his sweat as it evaporated. He approached the false Arwen before him, now wearing those damned robes of the Silencers. Zann and his minions were similarly dressed and supported their new queen with enthusiastic chanting.

 _It is time for you to leave, or so it may seem…_

Jingles felt his strength and flames fading, almost in time with the approach of the tenor's army.

 _Dark nights are upon you… black magic slays on the chorus!_

Arwen took the energy of her minions and began to sing even stronger. Her slow dance was one he hadn't seen in months. It was one she created, one she only performed if they were alone and he was singing for her. His knees were becoming weaker with each of her entrancing motions.

 _I'll drag you back down to Hell, listen to me!_

Jingles focused on the pain of the growing flames eating at his back and the lightning running through Jessie's strings. He felt barely alive, only just strong enough to sing the next line.

 _I've waited here for the longest time!_

The opposing forces met in Arwen's central spotlight. Jingles' dead eye saw the now-opaque tentacle of ink reaching from the creature made of floating Jesters. It reached down to ensnare Arwen's neck. He could almost see it match her pulse as it ensnared her face, swallowing her.

 _Your friend is now mine! ALL MINE!_

There was still a hint of green in the eyes being buried in liquid shadows. They cried out into his mind, drowning out the music with a single word… It fueled the rage and desperation in his voice as he sang the final words.

 _SHE WILL BE FREE!_

Jessie almost leapt out of his hands as she played her final chord. He didn't care. It accomplished what he wanted. Their combined magic sent the flames in a blazing eruption, overtaking the entire stage. The tendrils were burned away instantly, leaving the clowns beneath them unscathed. Arwen's eyes cut through the fire and smoke with the strength he had always loved in her.

He barely heard Geist finishing the song with his violin supports. They wound down with the same melody it started with, slowly dying instead of growing. The flames had already faded and left them in utter darkness. Both of his eyes frantically searched for any trace of the living shadows and found nothing. Only the panting shapes of tired Jesters remained. The final notes of the song faded away without any echo in the performance hall. The audience remained frozen in time.

Jingles looked to Arwen again, the only clear thing in the darkness. Her mask was gone, but her costume had returned. Not a wisp of ink remained on her perfect face. Those emerald eyes stared at him with endless words that couldn't be said. They weren't the same ones that she had when she was his: the beautiful mania they shared had faded… but they were hers. They were free. And that same love she held for him remained.

She blinked, and she was Bell again. Shorter, with lilac irises and the silence that followed a creature without the need to breathe. She smiled at him beneath her mask. Jingles did the same through a stream of tears that began sometime between the first chord and last. The Silencer robes on the others had already vanished. Their gaze no long felt confrontational, only proud. He doesn't care if it was for him or themselves.

The crowd stood as one when the lights returned in force. There was a brief moment when that was the only true sound in the room, a few hundred feet striking wooden steps and supporting the weight of their owners. He forced himself to stop breathing and listen. The chanting was gone now, the strings, the piano, the unearthly chords Jessie replicated so well, even the growling voice from below.

A moment of peace.

Applause rattled the windows almost as strongly their chorus. Everyone floating lowered themselves back onto the stage, bowing and whistling with the cheers. Jingles, Bell, and Zann stood at the point. Jingles' partners bowed graciously, Bell adding a few kisses to her adoring fans. The tiefling needed a few stunned moments before he could join them. He kept Jessie displayed proudly and used his other hand to point to her. She deserved just as much credit as he did.

On the fourth bow, his ears caught something buried under the cheers and fireworks in the air. An instrument… Or was it a dozen? Somewhere distant, beyond the College walls… but definitely there. The sounds the bizarre instruments made sounded almost like what they just performed. Almost. He strained to focus on the differences without result. The music remained a whisper somehow drowning out the lightest cheers of his audience.

But it didn't scare him this time. The anxiety that haunted him when he heard the last tune wasn't there. Maybe it was the humming of Jessie in his grip, the lute chomping at the bit to go again. He got the distinct feeling even if she exploded right now, she would still be ready to play the next tune from the Old Ones.

On the next bow, he instinctively looked back to the performers behind him. Their number seemed off. The choir that was with him, the crew that chanted their part like those that were with Zann, there was eight when they started. He knew that. Now there was only five near him now, the rest joining Bell. His gaze focused on the crowd as he came back up and easily spotted the non-costumed members. His four partners… the fifth behind him, bowing from the piano.

He smiled honestly through the tears and sweat, giving another gracious bow… Let them come. Silencers, Speakers, monsters, they would all fall. Jessie's humming almost screamed in his mind that with these suicidal fools at his side, he needed nothing more. _They_ would save Arwen with him. Even if the Sunken Ones were waiting for this game of gods and mortals to end, it wouldn't matter. Even if his knowledge of them and his memories were creating this damned tune in his mind, it wouldn't matter. It would take more than that to stop them.

"Hold on, darling…" he whispered. "… Jingles won't let them take you. And neither will his friends."

So this was like the first thing I wrote in… a while, unfortunately. Between my old commissioner going silent and being busy as Hell with my new son, I've had a hard time finding time and motivating myself to write with what I do get. And then I had a dying urge to do so, followed by an obsession with a song I knew I could make something with. Which resulted in this: more terrible mental trauma for my clown!

Seriously, though, had a grand time with this one. Hopefully I can use this as a springboard to get back into the habit of writing again. Here's hoping, anyway. But hope ya'll enjoy this regardless!

The song is a slightly modified version of "Instruments of Cyanide" by DAGames over on YouTube. Seriously, watch the lyric video for it. It's wonderful.


End file.
